Page 34 of The Rebound Play

“Hey,” I reply before I take my seat and grab a pen, a line of people forming in front of me. Several move from Ted’s line to me, and he shrugs and shakes his head at me good-naturedly.

Cooper sits down heavily in a chair on my other side and wryly observes the growing crowd. “Why don’t they have a statue of you? I half expected one when I went downtown,” he says, and I think he’s making a joke, but it isn’t clear.

“It’s just cause I’m the hometown guy,” I reply.

“You’re our hometown hero,” Marie-Ellen McCluskey, the resident town gossip, says as she thrusts a jersey with my number on it in front of me.

“Hey, Mrs. McCluskey. Nice to see you,” I say as I scrawl my signature across the jersey.

“Put some kisses on it,” she instructs.

I glance up at her. She looks just the same as she did when I lived here: cropped grey hair, glasses, her lined face lifted in a big smile. “Sure thing.” I add a couple of kisses in the form of “x” to the jersey and hand it to her.

“Now everyone in my knitting circle will be jealous,” she says.

Dawson shakes his head. “Man, you’re like a God in these parts. I wonder if anyone will be wearing a jersey that doesn’t have the number twenty-nine on it at the games.”

The mention of my number makes me think of Keira. Heck, most things make me think of Keira now that I’m back in Maple Falls. And particularly since I’m here at Maple Fest, memories of us together are my constant companions.

The way she looked at me when I gave her my jersey and explained my number sends a warm glow spreading through me, like sunlight breaking through the clouds. It gave me hope, and if we hadn’t left straight away for Benny’s lesson, and I hadn’t needed to leave from the arena to go to dinner at my parents’ place, I would have tried to get her alone and finally found the courage to tell how I feel about her.

I hope to get that chance soon. Real soon.

“Look out, guys. Puck bunnies at eleven o’clock. And they’re all Dan Roberts fans,” Dawson says, gesturing at a group of women wearing my jersey. One of them has it knotted at the front, exposing her taut belly, and as her eyes land on me she tosses her long dark hair and throws me a flirty smile.

“Definitely puck bunnies,” Cooper grinds out, sounding totally unimpressed by them.

The women reach the desk, and a couple of them begin to flirt with all of us. The one with the long dark hair has me in her sights, and she leans on the table toward me, her hair falling over one eye.

“It’s great to see you again, Dan,” she purrs.

“I’m sorry. Do I know you?” I ask, not recognizing her.

“We met in Chicago after a game last winter. I’m Lana. My friend, Stacey, and I talked to you for ages at Glenn’s party?” she replies, referring to the Blizzard’s defenseman, Glenn Mitchell.

I vaguely remember the party—one of many, I’m sure. There are always parties after matches when you play in the NHL, particularly if your team wins. And with the parties come the women. Plenty of them.

“My friend, Stacey, got on real well with Glenn that night,” Lana continues. “And I thought you and I got on pretty well, too.”

Now that I look at her, I do remember her from that party at Glenn’s house, just down the road from my own. A few of us had houses in the same neighborhood, and we often hung out together between practices. When you’re a recognizable face it’s often easier to hang with the team rather than navigate others. Sometimes it’s hard to know who’s genuine and who’s not, and I’ve found I can trust my teammates.

The way Lana toyed with her hair the whole time we talked comes back to me, her shirt tied in the same knot, exposing her midriff. She was flirting, making it clear what her intentions were toward me, and I’d been tempted, I’ll admit. She’s a gorgeous, sexy woman and I was single. But I’ve never been one to go for the puck bunnies much, not like some of my teammates. They’re only interested in you because you’re in the NHL. That might have been enough when I first started out, but it got old, real fast.

“How are you doing, Lana? Sorry I didn’t recognize you straight away.” I glance at her empty hands. “Have you got something for me to sign?”

“This shirt,” she replies, straightening up so I get the full view of her figure, showcased in her skintight pants and cropped shirt. “Right about here.” She points at her chest.

Subtle? That would be a hard no.

Dawson throws me a knowing look.

I lift my lips into a fake smile. “No can do, sorry, Lana, but if you get a new jersey from over there,” I gesture at the merch stand. “I’ll sign that one for you, no problem.”

Her features drop, but I’m no longer looking at Lana. I spot Keira, talking with Cooper’s PR person. She’s laughing at something she said, her whole face lit up. Unlike the walking sex advertisement in front of me, Keira is wearing a fall-appropriate jacket, fully covering her midriff, over a pair of jeans and sneakers, a bobble hat on top of her head.

She looks cute and sexy in a much more subtle way than women like Lana. My chest expands at the sight of her.

She looks in my direction and I raise a hand in greeting. She flashes me her slightly shy smile before she returns her attention to her friend.

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