Page 1 of The Girl in the Hockey Jersey

Chapter1

Harper

The downsideof actually wanting to watch the whole hockey game and not miss a second of the action means standing in line for the ladies’ room in between the second and third period. A very long line.

My bladder regrets the second beer I guzzled as if it was the elixir of life. But it helped me unleash my inner hockey fangirl, so this is the price to pay.

The girl ahead of me is on her phone, furiously texting, and I have to gently remind her that the line is moving forward.

“Sorry,” she mutters, barely glancing at me. But something catches her attention, because she does a second look, this one raking down my body.

I’m wearing black leggings, warm boots since it’s the middle of winter in Buffalo, and an Arizona jersey. While the Buffalo arena is within driving distance of my house, I enjoy being the odd girl out—the weirdo in the wrong jersey when I go to games. This is the third time I’ve done one of these weekends in Buffalo, and each time I’ve worn the visiting team’s sweater. I’m getting quite the collection at the back of my closet.

This girl, on the other hand, is dressed for a nightclub. Skinny jeans with more rips than make sense for a freezing cold arena, a slinky top that looks like it unlaces, and pretty lingerie underneath both—matching, and that I can tell that from the gaps in her clothing says something about her plans for the evening.

“Are you an Arizona fan?” she asks.

“I hate hockey.” Then I add, because I’m honest to a fault, “More of a love-hate relationship, I guess. It’s complicated.”

She looks confused, then flicks that away. It doesn’t matter, her expression clearly says. Right, that’s information best shared with my therapist.

“I need a plus one for a party with the team tonight, and you’re hot. Do you want to come?” She makes a face. “Don’t tell them you hate hockey, though.”

“Pardon?” I tilt my head to the side. “What team?”

She glances down at my jersey again, that confused expression back, like she’s wondering if I’m stupid. “The one whose jersey you’re wearing?”

“Oh.”

“There’s a thing after the game, with some of the Arizona players. The rule is, pretty girls who come have to bring a friend. You’ll do.”

I’lldo.

Whew, that hits hard in a way I do not like. “I’m good, thanks.”

She jiggles in frustration, a little mini tantrum that she does a good job of containing as she realizes she can’t force a stranger to come to a party with her. “Argh. Look, my friend said that she’d come with me, and now she’s backing out. I need to get inside that party.” She shows me her phone. “I’m an influencer, and the inside scoop on how to get into parties like this would make amazing content. I could spin it for months.”

At least she’s not just a puck bunny. She’s just as selfish as those players will be, and I can respect that. She has my attention now. “And you need to bring a buddy?”

The line moves forward again.

“Ahotbuddy. It’s a whole thing. The players want theirchoiceof girls, you know?”

Oh, I know. Something ugly inside me rears its vicious head. I fed that little monster two beers, and now I’m considering a very bad idea. “Have you been to this kind of party before?”

“Yep. That’s how I got on this invite list.”

“Who organizes it?”

She launches into a long story about this other influencer. I don’t care. I’ve changed my mind. I’m in. I give her my number, and we make a plan to meet up at the end of the game.

I get back to my seat just before the start of the final period.

Arizona gets a rare-for-this-season away game win, 3-2, and as I watch them skate off the ice, I wonder which of them will be at the party.

Most of the young guys, definitely. How many of the married ones? The superstars?

I read the hockey gossip. The message boards I lurk on are full of snide comments and blind items I gobble up like the worst kind of candy. Tonight, I’m actually going to be witness to something like what I’ve read about.

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