Page 65 of Crossing the Top Line

“Jokinson always gives incredible interviews. Spencer Black is the hometown hero, and I think he gives good insight on the game. Dallas Young is the captain, but he’s not a fan of being on camera,” I say honestly.

“Good to know. Thanks, Chip. I’ll see you out there,” he replies fondly.

Unable to stop myself, I lunge forward, wrapping my arms around his chest tightly. He returns the hug without hesitation, and even if it doesn’t last long, I’m still warm when we pull apart.

I’m never so reluctant to do my job as the days my dad is here. And today is no exception.

Thebuzzersoundsandthe crowd goes wild, celebrating the close win we managed to pull off tonight. As the team skates to center ice together, everyone looks to Dallas for the signal. He nods once everyone’s here, and we tap our sticks twice on the ice before lifting them into the air to a swell of applause. Our salute to the fans, one they appreciate even as many of them are already halfway out the door trying to beat traffic.

As a group, we glide toward the tunnel, the mood on the team is bright. We’re a few days away from our trip out west, and I can’t deny that it feels good to be heading to California on a three-game winning streak. Oli falls into stride with me as we step off the ice, Eli just behind me. I give him an appreciative grin, holding out my gloved hand for him to bump. He played an unreal game tonight, scoring two of our five goals, including the one that got us tied ten minutes from the end of the third period.

“I want all of you to go right home and get some rest. I know it’s Friday night and we don’t have a game tomorrow, but I expect everyone here bright and early so we can go over tape,” Coach says, speaking over the chatter.

Caleb slumps, shooting a disappointed look over his shoulder at me. My stomach drops a little, too, but I shake my head. Dallas might be the team captain, but the guys have unofficially elected me to be the team ambassador to the coaching staff, but specifically with Coach McQueen. Not that I have any particular advantages that they don’t. If anything, Coach islesslikely to do what I ask because of our shared history. The victory celebration will have to wait for another day.

“Hey, BlackJack!”

I turn as I hear a familiar feminine voice shout my nickname, an unconscious smile pulling up the corners of my mouth. Oli and Eli stop with me as we watch Tori push her way through the dwindling crowd, and I can’t help when my eyes drag down her body and back up to her face. She’s wearing a curve-hugging dress that’s so dark green that it almost looks black, the fabric shimmering gold ever so slightly when it catches the light. She’s gotten her roots touched up recently, the gold highlights in her hair brighter. It still surprises me how good she looks as a blonde, though I’m sure she’d still be the most stunning woman in the room if she chose to dye her gentle waves neon orange.

“Congrats on the win, guys! Can I borrow Spencer for a few minutes?” she exclaims, slightly breathless.

“Only for a few minutes? Are you sure you don’t want to take him overnight? I promise he’s house trained,” Eli interjects before I can even open my mouth.

Oli laughs, and I grin bashfully, punching Eli’s shoulder. He over-exaggerates the hit, groaning with pain as he staggers sideways into the wall. I roll my eyes, but can’t find it within me to tell him to cut it out, especially when it makes Tori laugh. She looks at me, still smiling, and my stomach swoops when the expression doesn’t fade like it had only a few short weeks ago.

“Does it have to be right now? Or can I get changed?” I ask, shifting uncomfortably on my skates.

“You’ve got time. I’ll fend off the vultures for a few more minutes,” she replies genially.

I give her a parting smile before hightailing it to the locker room, undressing at lightning speed. Oli and Eli take their time, chatting with the other guys but always shooting me sideways looks, keeping track of me. I catch Oli’s amber eyes more than once, and I swear I see them flick down my bare chest in the moments before I pull on a t-shirt. But I’m sure I just imagine it.

I jerk my chin in farewell before heading back out to the hallway, pulling a ballcap down backward on my head as I find Tori almost exactly where I left her. She turns and starts to walk away without waiting, and I follow without hesitation. I’ll admit to looking at the way her dress clings to her toned backside, pulling my attention from the hypnotic sway of her hips before anyone can notice to catch up with her and fall into step. I try to tuck loose pieces of hair back behind my ears and under my hat as we go, but it’s hard to tell if I’ve gotten them all without a mirror.

“Trying to get the flow going?” Tori asks, a teasing smirk pulling up one corner of her pale-pink lips.

I chuckle and shake my head, dropping my hand. “I don’t think I could rock a mullet,” I reply.

“Sure, you could. But you’d have to grow a porn ’stache. Really complete the 80s hockey bro vibe,” she counters without missing a beat.

I let out a bark of laughter, trying to imagine myself with a full mustache and a thick mane of curls. And the only thing that comes to mind is if a young Jaromir Jagr and Tom Selleck had a baby.

“I’m getting a haircut tomorrow. No one should be subjected tothataffront to nature and human decency.” The horror in my voice is only half joking.

Tori smiles, a softer thing now that makes my heart skip a beat. “Good. I like you better with short hair.”

I want to reply, but then I’m suddenly pulled into the center of the press swarm, and she disappears behind a wall of middle-aged men in polo shirts. Of course, she would drop a bomb like that and not give me a chance to respond. But I’m forced to put on a smile and turn on my public persona as half a dozen microphones and recorders are shoved in my face.

“Great to have you with us tonight, BlackJack. Great game out there,” Peter Jefferson, a reporter for the local sports radio station, starts.

“Great to be here. Yeah, everyone played their hearts out tonight. Really nice to get the win,” I reply, brain working fast to recall all the media training I’ve done over the years.

Smile. Don’t give any answers they don’t ask for. Short, sweet, and to the point. Positive spin. Nothing against the other team.

The list of rules goes on and on.

“Y’all got behind quite a bit there in the first. What was the locker room like between periods?” Peter asks, lifting his microphone slightly closer to my mouth.

I let out a slightly humorless huff of a laugh, hands going to my hips. Logan doesn’t yell like other coaches I’ve worked with in the past. He gets quiet, eerily so, and that’s honestly ten times worse than any expletive-filled tirade could be.

---