Page 14 of Hit Me With Your Best Shot

In the shadows beneath the brim of his cap, I watch his lips twitch, almost forming a smile. “Not really. Thought I could use a change of scenery.”

“Sure, sure.” I gesture toward his glass. “Because the water at home wasn’t cutting it?” I chuckle. “You like their Sonic ice better?”

The quip earns me a soft laugh and I feel an odd sense of victory. I pause to grab another handful of fries—three at a time, naturally—and take a bite before continuing my banter.

“I was here the other night for the Baddies game—what I love about this place is it doesn’t get crowded so I can watch games in peace.”

His expression shifts enough to make me pause.

“The Baddies game?” He goes still, one fry suspended halfway to his lips.

“Yeah,” I say, nodding. “Talk about a letdown, hey? Goalie seriously screwed the pooch on Thursday. Ugh.”

He’s silent for a moment, dark eyes watching me intently.

“What?” I chew and talk at the same time now that we found a topic I feel passionately about. “Am Iwrong? ‘Cause I’mprettysure I saw that puck fly past him at least three times, and he wasn’t even close.”

His lips twitch, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. More like…

A restrained smile.

He looks constipated.

“Everyone has off nights,” he says finally, studying his water glass, pushing it forward so the bartender can refill it. “Including goalies.”

“True—but three nights?” I pop yet another fry into my mouth. “This wasn’t an off night though. This was a train wreck. Like, they should check the poor guy for whiplash.”

Poor bastard.

He exhales a quiet laugh through his nose, finally setting the fry down on the napkin beside his glass. “At least you’re honest.”

“The good news is, he’s not around to hear me rant about how horrible he’s been playing.” I hesitate. “I mean, I love the guy, but lately I have no idea what his deal is.”

His countenance doesn’t change—no smirk, no frown—just a stillness that suddenly feels heavier than it should.

“Right?” I ask again, my voice faltering, confidence waning.

One second passes.

Then another.

Then,

“Right.” The guy clears his throat. “You sound like you know what you’re talking about. Huge fan?”

I nod enthusiastically. “I am. My dad passed away a few years ago and I inherited his season tickets; I’ve been coming to games since I was little. What about you?”

“Yup. Big fan.” He also nods. “Where are your seats?”

“Upper level, center ice,” I say. “They’re great. You can see the whole rink, every play, every bad call from the refs.”

He smiles faintly. “Good seats. But…”

“But?” I prompt, reaching for a knife so I can cut my cheeseburger in half. Might as well eat it now since we’re sitting here chatting. I hate reheating food.

“They’re not at the glass.” He says it nonchalantly—as if those seats weren’t a big deal.

I laugh, shaking my head as I finish cutting the burger. “No. I’m not made of money, so nosebleeds will have to do until I win the lottery.”

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