Page 1 of Penalty Shot
I entered the busy bar with my teammates two minutes ago and already there’s a pair of brunettes walking over, ready to pounce.
“Randall Haughland, oh my gawd, you were amazing tonight,” one of them says while pressing her boobs against my arm.
“What a win! Can we get a picture with you?” the other girl asks, her phone out and her teeth bared.
She takes a selfie without waiting for an answer.
Story of my life right there.
My name and face are posted all over social media, but the hockey part is a little fuzzy.
Yes, I’m Randall Haughland.
No, I’m not the goalie who was amazing tonight.
I didn’t even play, unless you count being the padded target of slapshots during practice.
You know that guy who sits apart from other players, opening the door and encouraging the team? The one who plays every ten games or so, when the main goalie needs a break? The one with perfect hair, all his teeth intact, and an unsoiled jersey? That would be me.
I’m what’s called the second goalie.
The backup.
The spare.
Call me what you want, but my name is on that Stanley Cup when we win it at the end of the season.
It works for me. I like my teeth.
There’s a push from behind, which propels me toward thereserved table at the back of the bar.
“See you around,” I say to the girls, ready for a seat and a drink.
“Excuse me, this table is reserved. You’re going to have to move,” one of the servers tells a woman whose ass is leaning on our table. She looks to have spilled over from the large group occupying the table beside it.
“We’re willing to share,” my teammate Connor says to the server, but he’s looking right at the table tresspasser being shooed away.
So am I.
The woman is wearing an orange t-shirt with paint stains and jeans that are the true picture of distressed: ripped, stained, and rolled up at the bottom and the top. They are so ill-fitting, they probably belong to someone else. It’s the kind of outfit that would make most people look like they stumbled out of bed and their bed was a dumpster. But with a face like that, it comes across as a joke. A funny attempt to make the wearer look ugly and ridiculous.
It didn’t work, because this woman is fucking gorgeous.
Not in a sexy, polished way.
Not like a hot celebrity or a beauty queen.
But like the prettiest girl in the neighborhood who everyone secretly had a crush on.
Her hair is black and wavy. Arched brows match the thickness of her lashes. She’s Asian, her eyes amber brown and shaped like delicate crescents. Her lips are a tad wide for a somewhat narrow face. They’re shaped perfectly, though—the bow at the top of her lip is so defined it could have been drawn.
“Awesome! Thanks!” A bunch of people from her group spread out on the seats that had been reserved all night.
She laughs, stepping back to make room for her friends.
In the jostle, I’ve managed to elbow Connor out of the way. Our groups merge, hands reaching over the table and names exchanged like so many trinkets. She holds out her hand to me.
“Elise,” she states, “thanks for sharing.” She tilts her head toward her friends. “We’ve been scolded all night by the servers who were willing to die for the plot of land on which your table lay.”
