Page 2 of Goal Line Love

I step back, take a long look, attempting at all costs to not react, and shrug. “Hm, not bad, but I’ve seen better.”

“Ouch.” He feigns being hurt, but his smile returns in a flash. He strips his boxers and stands before me nude, and my chest heaves.

The man packs a championship trophy in his boxer briefs.

Harrison leans a little closer. “You can touch.” He smirks.

The comment snaps me back to myself. “I don’t touch hockey players.” I take my pointer finger and land it on his chest, pushing him away and walk out to the laughter of the players.

2

HARRISON

A few of the guys and I are at the local hangout, Blue Line Pub and Grill, having dinner and a couple of beers. Bergan wracks my brain. I have to know more about her.

“So what’s Bergan’s story?”

The men quiet down and a couple lift their brows.

“She used to date Rocket Tilders. Shit went south. He cheated, but I heard she’s sleeping her way to the top.”

I clench my jaw at how callous he is. I hate gossip and the lives it can ruin.

Out of the corner of my eye, a woman walks through the pub wearing huge Audrey Hepburn glasses and a trench-coat and I chuckle. I sit back in my chair and smile.

“Guys, get this… that’s her.” I point Bergan out and all the men look.

“Not a very convincing disguise,” Alexi says.

The guys stop paying attention to her, but I can’t. She’s like the sun and I’m constantly wanting to revolve around her. She edges a little closer to our table and I wave the waitress over and ask to use her pen.

I start writing when I say, “Send a beer over to the woman in the big black glasses and red heels in the booth behind us and give her this.” I hand the folded napkin to her.

“You got it, Snow Beast.”

I frown but nod. It’s my nickname for the ice, but I hate it. I ignore it, though. It’s useless to argue with somebody about calling me that when it’s in the mouth of every reporter, coach, teammate, and fan out there.

“Let’s see what this does to her.” I swallow the rest of my beer.

Bergan

“Here you go.” A waitress drops off a beer and puts a napkin in front of me.

“I didn’t order this.”

“Read the note.” She nudges her chin toward the napkin and walks off before I can say anything.

Curious, I open the napkin slowly and slink down in the booth.

I’ll give you my inside story. Meet me at Zest, 7pm tomorrow night. Text me your answer: (555) 333-8787.

Who is this?

I lift my gaze and look around the room, and my eyes stop on Harrison, who’s leaning back in his chair with a shit-eating grin. He winks at me.

Shit! I’ve been made.

Well, I’m not James Bond and never claimed to be.

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