Page 92 of One Night Only
She regards me silently, and I can see the cogs in her pretty head working overtime.
“Come on, Goldie.” I grin. “I’ll even score a shutout for you.”
She slaps a hand over my mouth, her eyes wide. “You can’t say that!” Her brows draw together like she’s not completely sure. “It’s bad luck, right?”
“Honestly, it’s the worst kinda luck.” I shrug. “But fuck if it gets you to the game.”
She rolls her eyes, smiling. “Fine, but if anyone asks, I’m telling them I’m there for Happy.”
“You fuckingwhat?” I balk, even though I know she’s teasing.
“Yep.” She smirks. “Might even try get one of his jerseys so I can wear it…”
“Oh, that’s it, Goldie. You asked for it!”
I throw her effortlessly onto her back, flanking her body with mine, and then I tickle her sides, reveling in her squealing laughter as she squirms. And frankly, it’s this moment that makes me fall even harder in love with this woman.
CHAPTER 36
EMILY
This was a terrible idea.
As if braving the throng of overzealous Thunder fans crowding the sidewalk outside Madison Square Garden wasn’t bad enough, now, as I sit in my designated seat next to Fran, with nothing but some flimsy plastic divider separating my face from flying pucks and hulking hockey players, Robbie skates by during the team’s warm ups and blows a kiss in his girlfriend’s direction which results in Fran’s face—and mine—being broadcast over the damn Jumbotron for all to see. Fran flips Robbie the bird, causing him to throw his head back in laughter, which only draws more unwanted attention our way. So much for subtlety.
I try to play it cool with a casual smile like it’s no big deal, when really all I’m imagining is Andy watching on his TV at home, wondering what the hell I’m doing here.
“Stop worrying,” Fran says, nudging me. “This is supposed to be fun.”
I force a smile. “Sofun…”
She rolls her eyes, but then her gaze darts back out to the ice and her face lights up. Pressing her lips together, she composes herself, leaning in close to stage-whisper, “There’s your man.”
Honestly, I feel him before Fran even points him out, looking up in time to see number eleven skate by, his big hockey stick in one hand, catching glove on the other. I can’t see his face too well through the cage that shields it, but I do catch the glint in his eyes, and I know he’s smirking at me in that way that makes my heart stammer in my chest. I bite the inside of my cheek to stop from grinning like a moron lest I’m aired on the Jumbotron again. But when he nods, his helmet dipping in our direction, I feel my cheeks heat, and I know I’m at risk of totally giving myself away. So what do I do? I dig my hand into Fran’s popcorn, grab a handful and shove it right into my face. Anything to hide the smug smile that threatens at the thought of Dallas Shaw, goaltender for the New York Thunder, being my man. Act cool, Emily; there are cameras everywhere.
With three minutes remaining in the third period, I’m acting anything but cool, but the score is 1-0, so at least I’m not the only one. The entire Madison Square Garden crowd is on their feet, Thunder fans screaming for the defense. Fran and I are clutching one another as Robbie climbs over the boards and skates onto the ice for his shift. I don’t know much about hockey, but Dallas is on the verge of a shutout, just like he promised earlier, and it feels as if my stomach is in my butthole.
Robbie immediately has a Halifax player up against the boards, eliciting an ear-splitting roar from the crowd.
“Kick his ass, baby!” Fran screams.
Logan manages to stick the puck free from the scrum, but it’s loose and the Halifax center secures it between his stick and skates and is off on a breakaway, tearing up the ice with Happy hot on his heels.
“Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit!” Fran clutches her hands beneath her chin, watching on while nervously bouncing on her heels.
My eyes spear Dallas, who stands front and center, protectingthe net, knees bent, crouched down low, his eyes set firm on the puck as the opposing player approaches.
“Come on, baby,” I whisper, holding my breath. My gaze darts to the looming scoreboard. There’s still more than a minute to go, and what I’ve learned tonight is when the puck is in the offensive zone, a minute in ice hockey is practically the same as an eternity.
The Halifax player stops so suddenly in the middle of the circles, ice sprays up into the air, and then, so fast I almost miss it, he rears his stick back and shoots, the puck flying toward Dallas with such speed, I cover my eyes with my hands, peering through my fingers.
The puck hits the crossbar, rebounding into the crease, and the roar of the crowd is deafening as Dallas dives, smothering it before the referee blows his whistle to stop the play.
“Oh, my God, there’s still forty seconds,” Fran cries, frantically biting her nails.
The energy throughout the arena is electric as the teams get into line for the faceoff. I have my eyes trained on Dallas, watching as he gets into position, my heart hammering in my chest and, as soon as the puck drops, a mad scramble ensues before Halifax secures it. The play is sloppy at best, both teams desperate and obviously exhausted. Robbie puts the pressure on the opposing team’s left winger, who passes back to the center, and Logan comes out of nowhere, boarding the Halifax center, the puck slipping free again.
“Oh, my God!” Fran squeals, clutching my arm. “Happy’s on the breakaway!”
