Page 46 of Lucky Shot
Feeling a little more confident, I take another tentative step, this time farther from the gate.
“It’s easier with skates.” His deep voice startles me, and I swivel around, losing my balance in the process and going down hard on my butt.
It hurts. My pride hurts worse.
“Shit. Sorry.” He hurries out onto the ice to help me up. His big hands wrap around each of my wrists, and he pulls me to my feet. He looks me over as the cold radiates through my clothing.
“Are you all right?” His fingers hold me in place as he continues to stare at me with concern. His eyes spark a darker shade of green and up close that dimple in his chin is so tempting. I want to trace it with my finger…or maybe my tongue.
“Yes,” I say, reeling my thoughts in. I’m filled with a sudden embarrassment for daydreaming about licking his face and the sting in my butt. “You all make it look so easy.”
One side of his mouth lifts. “I could grab you a pair of skates from the back. What size are you?”
“Oh no.” I shake my head. “I don’t want to skate.”
He lifts a brow, calling my bluff since he just found me walking onto the ice.
“I had a momentary lapse in judgment, but I remember now why I don’t do sporty things.” I summon the use of my wobbly legs and carefully make my way back to the safety of the bench.
“So,” I say, composing myself in a professional way that hopefully wipes his memory of me flat on my ass. “Should we jump in?”
He hesitates a beat, perhaps surprised by my switch in topic, while I gingerly sit. Finally, he waves a hand, indicating I should continue.
My tailbone still aches, but I push it from my mind as I read the first question on my list, “What’s game day like?”
“Home or away?”
“Are they different?” I ask. “Aside from location, of course.”
“Not for everyone, maybe.”
“But it is for you?”
His jaw works back and forth. It’s not in the angry, annoyed way I’ve seen before, but in a more contemplative way as if he’s rethinking his answer or choosing his words carefully.
“Maybe you want to just walk me through both?” I ask, hoping to make it easier for him to explain.
It’s another few seconds of quiet, only Aidan’s skates and the sound of him hitting the puck in the background, before Nick speaks again. “I do pretty much the same thing regardless of where I am once I get to the rink. I change clothes, set out my gear, then tape my stick. After that I have a protein shake and then chug some water so I’m hydrated. Then I stretch, get treatment, if needed, go to meetings.”
“More research meetings?”
“Before the game we have a team meeting to talk about power plays or any last-minute lineup changes on either team that are going to impact our style of play.”
“Strategy.”
“Yeah.” He bobs his head in agreement.
“How soon is that before the game?”
“About two hours before.”
“And then what do you do?” I’m sitting forward, the pain in my butt completely forgotten. It’s hard to pinpoint why I’m so intrigued—by him or the intricacies of hockey. My guess, based on a lifetime of disinterest in sports, it’s the former.
“Then it’s time to get loose and warmed up before we take the ice.”
“More stretching?”
“Some of the guys do that.”
