Page 8 of Date with a Devil
A fraction of a second was all it took. Sensing his trap had been sprung, Dane danced into center ice and traded lanes with the rookie. Before the goaltender, Vaughn, could even set himself for the shot, the puck rocketed off Dane’s stick.
Vulcanized rubber struck iron,ping,and the puck was in the net.
That fast.
Coach Stevens blew the whistle and the next group of skaters began their line rush. It was Matchbox, who centered a line with the identical twin brothers, Brayden and Jaden Rivers.
Mikey coasted to the bench, his head hung low. Dane saw another teachable moment and slid to a stop next to the rookie.
“I felt you going outside on me,” he told Mikey. “That’s what let me cut in on you. If a guy’s going wide on you, fine, let him go wide all day long. He can’t score from there. Don’t ever give up your inside position, though, alright?”
“Yeah, D. Damn, I knew that. I guess I thought I could pick your pocket.”
“That’s what I wanted you to think.” Dane gave a cocky grin. “And in the minors that move might have worked for you. But not at this level, Mikey. Guys are just too good. Stick to the fundamentals. Always.”
Mikey, Brayden, Jaden, Matchbox—all these rookies were incredibly skilled. But exceptional talent had a trade-off: players developed bad habits that worked at lower levels, but simply wouldn’t cut it against the world’s best players.
Dane nudged Mikey. “Oh. Hey. Look who it is.” He gestured across the ice, where a few members of the media had gathered to observe the Devils’ practice from behind the glass. Dane pointed out the guy who’d gone to press with the “fans are idiots” headline. The reporter had a cup of coffee in one hand, and stared at the glowing cell phone in his other hand.
Dane scooped up a loose puck with the blade of his stick. “Hey. Watch this.” The athlete wound up and fired a slapshot across the ice. Shot like a cannon, the puck slammed right on target into the glass with a cacophonousboom. Spooked, the reporter jumped and accidentally spilled a cup of coffee all over his shirt. “That motherfucker!” echoed throughout the empty rink.
Dane couldn’t help but laugh. “Jesus, he’s really gonna hate my guts now.”
“Why are you always provoking those guys, D?” Mikey asked. “Wouldn’t it be easier to give them nothing-quotes instead? You know, keep ’em on the outside, like you were just telling me.”
Dane smiled. “Don’t worry about me. Just play your game.”
Coach Stevens blew the whistle again and announced the end of practice.
“Guess it’s time to face the music,” Dane said as he glided off the ice.
***
Still wearing his sweaty hockey gear, Dane was in a familiar position after morning practice: surrounded by the media and embroiled in yet another flare-up of drama.
“Nope. Wrong,” Dane said, shaking his head. “Check the tape yourself. I saidsomefans are idiots, notallfans, like you implied when you quoted me. Once again, you took one small piece of a quote I gave, took it out of context, and then used it to make me look bad.”
“Some fans, all fans, what’s the difference?” the reporter asked, looking extra furious as he blotted the brown stain on his shirt with a paper napkin. “What gives you the right to insultanyfans?”
“Look, most of our fans are great—they wouldn’t be coming to our games if they weren’t, because God knows we haven’t given them a whole lot to cheer for lately. But you asked specifically about . . .”
As Dane continued his defense, he noticed a girl lingering behind the crowd. She looked too young and not nearly miserable enough to be a beat reporter. For a second, Dane wondered if she was actually one of the boys’ girlfriend who’d somehow gotten into the locker room. But that thought was quickly dashed once he spotted the press pass lanyard that dangled from around her neck.
Is she new?he wondered.Looks kinda familiar, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen her in here before.
While her esteemed colleagues jostled with each other and shouted to get another question in, she loafed in the back of the scrum. Wide-eyed, she took in all the sights and sounds of the locker room, oblivious to the interviews being conducted in front of her. Didn’t she know how these things worked? She’d never get a question in, being that passive.
Must be a rookie reporter,he thought.Give her a week or two. They’ll have her screaming at me in no time.
She’d wrapped her brunette hair into a large, messy bun that sat high atop her head. Judging by the size of that thing, her hair must’ve beenlong. Dane couldn’t help but stare and wonder how long her hair would be if she let it down—would it reach the small of her back? Her ass, maybe? He loved long hair—it was one of his many weaknesses when it came to women. (See also: big tits, hell,smalltits, long legs, pouty lips, cute moles in just the right places, a tiny gap between the front teeth, …)
Noticing the hockey player’s gaze, the young reporter scowled and pulled her merlot-colored blazer over her silky blouse.
Relax. I’m not checking you out,Dane thought, hoping his smiling eyes would convey the message. Last thing I’d ever do is get involved with someone from the media.
Dane fielded questions until the media’s time was up. The young reporter never got her chance to ask her question—but instead of leaving with the other media members, she milled around Dane’s stall. Being a young and attractive girl, there was no doubt in Dane’s mind that she was used to, and expected, special treatment.
“Hey, that means you, too, sweetheart,” Dane told her curtly. “You’re out of time.”
