Page 41 of Lucky Shot
“I don’t think that’s why Mike brought me here,” I say, mulling over the idea and immediately dismissing it.
“Maybe not. It could just be a happy coincidence that you’re beautiful.”
I’m blushing, which is ridiculous. Travis seems like the kind of guy who throws out compliments like confetti.
“Dude.” Nick winces then rubs his forehead with two fingers.
“What? She is.” He looks to me. “You are.”
“Thanks.”
He stands quickly. “How long are you in town?”
“I’m not sure,” I say because even though Nick has agreed to let me stay, it feels like he might still change his mind.
“We should grab dinner sometime.”
“Trav,” Nick says, sounding more exasperated. “She’s here to work.”
“Fine. Fine. Well, if you need any research help on the Victorian era, I’m your guy, but Nick is one of the smartest hockey players I know so you’re in good hands.”
“I appreciate it.”
He flashes me another giant smile, then slides his gaze to Nick. “Later, loser.”
As quickly as he waltzed in, he’s gone.
“Sorry about him,” Nick says with a heavy sigh.
“Don’t be. He’s funny. Have you been friends a long time?”
“Since I joined the team.”
“Two years ago,” I say, realizing too late that I’ve just admitted too much. I give him a sheepish smile. “I looked you up.”
Birthdate June twentieth. Drafted out of college. Played in Chicago, then Minnesota, and now here. And no social media as far as I could find.
“I looked you up too,” he says.
“Really?” I don’t even try to hide my surprise.
“You’re not just an author, you’re abestsellingauthor, translated in a bunch of different countries.”
My face flushes with embarrassment. Are you still a bestselling author if your last book flopped? I know the answer is yes, but it doesn’t feel that way.
I glance down as the heat continues to creep down my neck. I can’t even let myself think about what he might have read about me online. I’ve seen more than a few headlines about “disappointing sales numbers.”
He clears his throat and leans back in his chair as he pops open his lunch container, carefully avoiding my gaze.
I’m still wearing his sweatshirt. It’s light purple with Moonshot Hockey written across the front in white letters. Hisnumber is on the right shoulder, but in my case, it hangs down at elbow-length. I push the sleeves up and open my lunch, but I’m too jittery to eat.
“What other questions do you have for me?” he asks as he pulls out a sandwich.
I set my food aside and glance down at my notes, happy to have the distraction from thinking about my career.
“I have a couple game play scenarios. One where the hero needs to do something amazing and another where he screws up.”
“Something amazing?”
