Page 13 of Lucky Shot
I fight a laugh. I bet that hurt him to ask.
“No,” I say, then do think of something. “Actually, can you tell me how far it is to the hockey rink?”
“Fifteen minutes or so. Why?”
“I’m meeting my contact there tomorrow.”
“At the rink?” The way he looks at me, you’d think I brought up smuggling body parts again.
“Yeah. I’m interviewing a hockey expert.”
His brows furrow harder. I have the ridiculous urge to step forward and smooth out all the lines on his face. I wonder what he looks like without all that hot grumpiness.Gasp.Maybe he’s only hot when he’s scowling. Nah, this guy is hot in any scenario.
“I’m a romance author and I’m editing a book…” I let my words trail off. “The hero of my book plays baseball, but my editor wants me to change it to hockey.”
He continues to stare at me like he expects the words to make sense if he thinks about them hard enough. So I spell it out for him.
“I need help with some of the rules and terminology. I don’t know sports puck stuff.”
“Sports puck?” It comes out more like he’s questioning the universe instead of me. Slowly, he tips his head back and looks up like he’s praying to the gods or in deep concentration, then as if connecting the dots that I just very clearly laid out for him asks, “You’re an author and you came here to interview ahockey expertfor your book?”
“Mhmm.” He’s literally just repeating my words.
“And you’re meeting thisexpertat the hockey rink tomorrow?”
“Yes?” I say but now it sounds like I’m the one questioning my plans. It’s been a long day and his grumpy aura is throwing me off.
“Who is your contact?”
“I can’t remember. Your dad knows though. He set it up. You know what? Never mind. I can see you’re very busy perfecting your resting grump face. I won’t take up any more of your time.”
He lowers his chin, fixing me with that weighty scowl, then does the most surprising thing yet—he laughs. It’s not a happy sound, but a deep, rough chuckle that skates over my skin. He has dimples in both cheeks that are in a word, disarming. “Good luck with that, Red.”
Then he turns on his heel and marches back toward the house.
“Good luck with that?” I mumble, then louder, “Red? Seriously? How original!”
What an asshole. I slam the door, hopefully sealing out all the bad vibes. I’m determined to make this cabin my happy place for the next six weeks despite Nick, despite months of not writing, and every other thing stacked against me.
I can do this. Ihaveto do this. This is my shot to prove to Doreen, Molly, myself, and everyone else that I have another great book in me.
I hold on to that hope as I sit on the couch and pull out my laptop. Once I navigate to my email, I find the one Molly sent over with the hockey expert’s contact details and meeting information. Nick was no help, but who needs him?
My body flushes from head to toe and I read the name twice, then a third time, hoping I’m seeing things.
“Nick Galaxy,” I say in a whisper as I let my head fall back against the cool leather. The grumpy man who I just promised not to bother is the one person I need to finish this book.
5
NICK
“No. Stop. You’re killing me.” Travis leans on his hockey stick, head bowed, as he cackles so hard it shakes his entire body.
We’ve got the ice to ourselves and are hitting a few pucks before camp starts. He stands tall and bows his back, then throws his laughter into the air, noise echoing in the empty stands and rafters.
“I’m glad you find this funny.”
“I can’t believe you don’t.”
