Page 3 of Head Over Skates

Hendrix steals the phone to read the article he missed out on.

“It’s complete BS,” I say.

Coach gives me a dry look. “Yeah. So?”

“So?” I practically stutter. “I haven’t so much as eaten out in months. That’s defamation of character.”

I work hard, keep to myself, and stay out of trouble… well at least off the ice. My reputation as a serious athlete means a lot to me.

He half laughs. “Don’t pay the press any mind. Come on, now. It’s time to start.”

He turns toward the front of the room and claps his hands as loud as thunder. By this time, the whole team is assembled, facing the smart screen where Coach will go over strategy for tonight’s game and play videos to highlight tendencies of our opponent and how we can exploit them.

Cue evil laugh.

But I can’t shake the feeling I’ve had since I arrived this morning. I just feel… off today. Like my skin is a little too tight, or as though I put my shirt on backwards.

The feeling follows me all day. During my off-ice stick handling and shooting drills, after lunch, when I go home for my pre-game nap, and especially when I get back to the arena wearing my game day suit.

My eyes are everywhere, searching for fans with cameras, or looking up at the security installments. That blog had images from all sorts of angles. When did they get those pictures?

And I don’t know why it bothers me so much, but I can’t shake it. I’ve never cared about the press. But for some reason, that blog post hit differently. Because it wasn’t about hockey. It painted me as something I’m not. And I guess, after how hard I’ve worked to get where I am, someone can just come along and write whatever the heck they want, even though they know they’re full of it.

The thought of it stews in me all night. So much that I get thrown into the sin bin more than once.

I’m just not in the zone tonight, which is good news for the Seattle Sea Lions.

Sawyer and Hendrix are on the first line with me. The power players. Fans and press fondly nicknamed our trioThe Killersbecause we’re so shrewd on the ice. A game against a low-ranking team like the Sea Lions usually ends in complete slaughter. But tonight, even the fourth line plays a better game than us.

Oh, we’ll still win, but barely.

When the Sea Lions score their one and only goal, they’re so stunned and overly excited, they stop and stare at each other for a full ten seconds. And although sound doesn’t carry well from beyond the boards, I swear I hear a littlewhoop whoopbehind the Zamboni door. And when I chance a glance, I spot a certain little kitty cat with a powder blue beanie, pumping her fists in the air.

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EMILY

His head whirls over his shoulder and those icicle eyes burn into me with a fury. Did Owen Jablonski actually acknowledge my presence? Not that I want his attention. Especially after I just cheered for the other team. But I can’t help it. I love rooting for the underdogs. They were over the moon to score a goal. It was so cute.

And who does Owen think he is, anyway? Star center. Team captain. Nice butt. Blah blah blah. He might be a fine drink of water, but his grouchy temperament isn’t doing him any favors.

So I lift my chin and hold his stare, narrowing my eyes with a wicked smirk.

Yes, sir. I did hoot for the Sea Lions.

My eyebrows lift in challenge and he spins a quarter turn to face me fully.

But then something glorious happens.

For the one-point-five seconds he takes his focus from the game, a streak of pink flies over the plexiglass and smacks him squarely on the side of his face, sliding onto his collar. It takes him a second to realize, but when he does, there’s a furrow in his brow as he lifts the tiny, lacy garment. But with those bulkygloves on, he loses grip, and the garment falls flatly to the ice, landing in a tiny, hot pink triangle.

I. Can’t. Even.

This is just too good. I only wish I had my camera. Two young women are plastered against the glass, screaming like they’re at a rock concert. They are one hundred percent focused on the players and not the sport. The kind of puck bunnies that arrive early just to watch the guys do their on-ice stretches. I’d bet they wouldn’t even be able to tell you the rules of the game if pressured under pain of death.

Personally, I don’t condone objectifying any person. And let’s be honest, if a man were to throw his tighty whities at a professional female athlete, we’d be all up in arms about it. So why is it cute or silly when the genders are reversed? It’s not. But I laugh anyway…

Because Owen “Juggernaut” (or as I like to call him—“Junk-for-nuts”) Jablonski deserves it. I am so going to have fun writing about this in my blog tonight.

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