Page 10 of A Whole New Trick

I laugh at her ridiculous analogy and try to play it cool, but I stay glued to my phone the rest of the night.

I listen to Lacy lament her lack of personal life, my phone at max volume, so I’ll hear a text notification as I drive her back to her hotel. I stare at the screen while brushing my teeth, talking myself out of searching for Dane on social media and following his account. And I fall asleep with the device next to my pillow.

The next morning, I wake and excitedly look at my phone to see if Dane finally reached out.

He didn’t.

That remains the case the entire day.

I get ready for my interview with the Ranchers, knock it out of the park, and then go to my parents’ house for our weekly dinner. In all that time, I never receive a message.

He ghosted me.

Looks like my assumptions were correct… Dane Larsonisan asshole. And I’m the fool who let herself get played…again.

3

DANE

6 MonthsLater

“Larson, meet me in my office.”

I bend my hips and turn to the side to stop my glide, coming to a stop on the ice as I register Coach Miller’s barked command. I have no idea what I’ve done to piss off the Ranchers’ head coach, but I suspect I’ll know soon enough. Frank Miller isn’t the type of guy who holds his cards to his chest. You always know what he’s thinking.

“Oooo. Looks like someone is in trouble.” Cam skates over, wearing his bulky goalie pads, grinning at me like a mischievous kid. “What did you do this time?”

“He’s probably pissed about that interview you gave Ranchers Network last weekend,” Brody Patterson, one of our defensemen, chimes in with a cackle. “I can’t believe you criticized our fanbase like that.”

“I didn’t criticize shit,” I growl, unable to ignore their ball-busting. “All I said was our fanbase isn’t as large as the ones for the teams up north.” Which is objectively true.

The Ranchers have some loyal fans in the Dallas area, but other sports dominate the interests of the Texas population as a whole. It’s nothing like in Minnesota—my home state.

“You’re right.” Cam nods. “You didn’t criticize the fans. You criticized the organization. I bet the owner loved that.”

I shake my head, skate to the wall, and exit the rink. Practice is over, but a lot of the guys are hanging around and working on their shots. We’re two weeks out from the start of playoffs, and the team clinched a spot after our win over Boston last week.

Now, we’re all focused on the next phase of the season—and that’s doing everything in our power to make it to the finals and win the Stanley Cup for the first time in franchise history. It’s a tall order, but with the way the team is playing, we just might have a shot.

I go to the locker room to shower and change before making my way to Miller’s office. The door is open when I arrive.

Still, I knock.

“Come in, Larson.”

I roll my shoulder back, ready to face whatever criticism is coming my way, and step inside. “You wanted to see me, sir?”

“I did.” Miller isn’t alone. Justin Young, the head athletic trainer, sits in front of the coach’s desk. “Take a seat.”

Justin watches me enter before rotating to face the head coach, who sits behind his sleek wood desk. I sit next to the trainer, lean back to rest my elbows on the armrests, and wait for Coach to explain why I’m here.

I don’t have to wait long. “There have been some questions regarding your recent performance.”

I blink. “My performance?”

Does he mean the slapshot I delivered in the final seconds of the last game to seal our win? Or my double-digit assists from the game before that?

“You’re training performance,” Justin says, receiving a silent cue from the coach that he should take over.

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