Page 4 of Ice, Ice… Maybe?

“Leave her alone…”

Theo stood up and pointed at the other player near Travis.

“C’est un gros cochon…Leeev ’er alone, okay?”

“Thanks, Theo,” he grinned as Holden, their lineman, rolled his eyes. Turning to sit down, he risked a look at her across the way and raised his hand slightly to say ‘Hello’ silently… only to see her frown as she pointed to her chin, then at him, before back at her chin.

Travis gave her a thumbs up… wincing as his lip split again from smiling too broadly.She wanted to know if he was okay?Oh yeah, he was definitely going to say ‘hello’ and get her number after the game. Looking at the clock, he pointed at it, then himself, and held up his thumb and finger to his face pretending to use the phone only to see her smile brightly – and feel Theo backhand him on the chest, pointing at the screen above.

There, on the screen, was his busted-up face, grinning… and on the split-screen - was his mysterious girl. Someone had noticed them trying to communicate, and the crowd was eating it up. There was a ton of cheering and some booing by a few people, but he couldn’t help the sheer joy just seeing that brought to his heart.

He was gonna be watching SportsCenter tonight to see if this was on the recap.

As the gamecame to a close, Travis turned and grabbed a pen from the pocket of one of the assistant coaches. “Be right back with this,” he said simply and didn’t wait. Surging out onto the ice, he made eye contact with his girl and pointed toward the doorway in the distance.

And everyone noticed.

Heading toward the corner boards, the small gate along the wall that would allow the Zamboni onto the ice, he saw her heading there among the crowd. As he got close, he smiled and started signing autographs, giving her time to get closer through the crowd hopefully, allowing it to clear out just a bit.

“Hey!” Travis called out over a few heads, seeing her smile. “What’s your name?”

“Rebecca Baird, but my friends call me Becca or Becky… and you?” and then she hesitated, laughing nervously and pointed at her shirt. “You are number eighty – Giroux. Are you okay? I mean,” she left off, pointing at her face… and he smiled, before wincing.

“Travis,” he corrected, adoring the way her cheeks got pink. “I’m fine. This is nothing, honestly, but I’d like to explain all of that over dinner sometime, Rebecca… so what shall I call you?”

“Yours?”

Both looked at each other in that split second – and then she stammered again.

“Um, well, that came out wrong. I meant to say ‘your friend’ and…”

“I think it came out exactly the right way,” Travis interrupted knowingly and fought back the urge to fist-pump the air. “Do you have any paper? Or your cell phone?”

“No. I left it with my friend.”

“Stick out your arm,” he ordered, biting the tip off the pen that he’d been using to sign a few autographs, and looked at her as he pulled up the sleeve. “Cover this… please?” and proceeded to write his cell number on the soft underside of her wrist.

“Just you,” he said pointedly, holding her gaze. “Not your friends or anyone else, okay? Call me and leave a message if I’m on the ice.”

“Okay,” she agreed breathlessly, staring at him.

“Dinner next week,” he suggested and yanked her shirtsleeve back down over her wrist. “I’ll talk to you soon.”

***

As Travis got back to the locker room after soaking in an ice bath for his aching body, he checked his cell phone and hesitated, shocked. There were four hundred and thirty-nine text messages… and his voicemail box was full.

“What in the world happened?” he uttered bluntly – only to getslapped on the chest by one of the guys, laughing, chewing on something, and pointing at the television.

“Turn it up for Loverboy… eh?”

Travis had a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach as he saw that photo of him writing on Becca’s wrist – as the camera zoomed in, magnifying his personal cell phone number for all the world to see. In the time that he was watching that mocking bit of reporting, discussing his desperate attempts at picking up a fan after the game on the screen, his phone had beeped four more times.

Four more text messages.

“Craaaaap…” he drawled in aggravation, slapping his forehead as the guys patted him on the back, laughing.

“It’s okay,” his coach chimed in, walking into the locker room behind him. “Maybe you took one too many hits to the face, eh, pretty boy? Next time I tell you and Theo to keep your darn gloves on –you’ll do it.”

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