Page 114 of Keeper
The girls exchanged glances and unanimously agreed: it was time.
“Time for what?” I asked as I glanced at the clock. “To go to the game?”
“Almost,” Molly said. “But first, we have something for you,” she said, presenting a gift bag to me.
“Aw, you guys. You shouldn’t have gotten me anything.”
“Nonsense!” Emma said cheerily. “It’s what we do.”
“Yeah, you’re one of us now,” Austen said. “You’ll see.”
I dug through the black and red tissue paper and pulled out a jacket. Adenimjacket, one that was exactly like everyone else’s. I turned it around and squealed with excitement when I saw my boyfriend’s nameplate, VAUGHN, and his number, 33, sewn on the back, in the same sparkly and bedazzled styling.
“I love it! I love it so much!” I said, putting my jacket on immediately. “Thank you so much, you guys.”
We shared in a group hug. Molly wanted to snap a picture to share on Instagram, so we put our arms around each other and smiled for her camera.
“Lovely shot, ladies! I’ll post this, and call the cab company, and then we can head out.”
We talked while Molly took care of business. I thanked the girls for the gift and making me feel so welcome. Everyone was so great.
There was a sudden tugging at the elbow of my new denim jacket. I turned around to see Molly, looking as if she’d seen a ghost. She clutched her cell phone nervously, glowing against her chest, covering up whatever was the screen.
“Um … Ainsley?” she whispered.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“I—was just trying to post this on Instagram, and—” She shook her head. “You might want to see this.”
My stomach roiled with acid.
I didn’t knowwhatit was, but I sure as heck knew who’d done it.
Marta …!
39
Tanner
Our arena was a pressure cooker as the boys desperately clung to a 1–0 lead in the last minute of the game. A nervous energy was palpable in the air, even as the hometown crowd rose to their feet and cheered us on. They knew this nail-biter was ending one of two ways: with a massive sigh of relief, or a late goal and a tremendous letdown.
But I wasn’t nervous. All night long, I was in the zone. Didn’t matter how many guys the Fury parked in my crease, I was seeing the puck through screens and traffic. And I certainly wasn’t getting beat clean tonight.
I’d shut the door.
With the puck deep in our zone, the Fury’s coach whistled for his goaltender to come off the ice—he was trading his netminder for an extra attacker. Their goalie left his net and charged over to the bench, and their star forward hopped onto the ice to take his place.
We were outnumbered six skaters to five, and with each second that ticked off the clock, the intensity ramped higher.
Making the most of their man advantage, the Fury cycled the puck down low, trying to shake a man loose in coverage. I tracked the play as it went behind my net—not thinking, not reacting, justplaying.I wasone step ahead but patient. I was loose but ready for anything.
Five seconds left.
The puck, down low, was thrown back to the point, and I saw their play developing. It was designed to get the puck across the ice to their star forward, who had a cannon of a one-timer from the top of the faceoff circle. Hell, everyone in the entire building knew that shot was coming—but knowing the shot is coming doesn’t always mean you can stop it. His shot is so hard, it’s been known to punch its way through goalies.
But I wasn’t letting anything beat me tonight.
Two seconds left, the Fury zipped the puck across the ice to their star, his stick cocked and ready. The hometown crowd audibly winced as he unleashed his heavy one-timer.
