Page 55 of Love at Teamsgiving
“Purely for Cruz’s benefit,” Beau says as if he’s well-versed in the language of love, or in this case, hate.
“Junie isn’t a jersey chaser, but she loves hockey,” I say.
“And you. Make sure she has yours on tomorrow night.” Redd chuckles.
I puff an exhale. “That would be like trying to wrestle a wet cat.”
But I will. If not this game, later. Whatever it takes.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Walkinginto the Fish Bowl wearing my favorite Empire State Kings jersey is like entering a lion’s den—not to be confused with the LA Lions, another hockey team.
The Kings are playing the Knights tonight, so it makes sense for me to root for my home team. Except, I’m in enemy territory and it looks like rival numero uno is sitting nearby with a bunch of other hockey players.
Nice to see they’re just chilling and carb-loading before a big game, which means they’ll lose.
I’ll admit, seeing them smiling and laughing genuinely makes me feel like the bad guy, er, gal, for talking, er, thinking negatively—especially since Miguel and I declared a truce. Yet if I don’t, I’ll forget my plan to no longer be in love with him.
My Miguel-cott is a losing battle.
Gracie and Leah—she works here, but it’s her day off—lead the way to a table and I follow, feeling eyes on me, namely Miguel’s, tracing my every step.
“We could’ve gone somewhere else,” I say, trying to shift out of the rowdy table’s line of sight. About sixty seconds ago, they were all looking at me with varying degrees of curiosity ... or something.
Miguel is the type to kiss and tell, so I wouldn’t expect him to keep our past to himself.
I keep my laser beam death stare fixed on the back of his head.
Leah says, “I don’t mind coming here on my days off.”
“Home away from home?” Gracie asks.
Leah bats her eyelashes. “No, I just figure the greater frequency with which I’m in the presence of hockey players, the greater chances I’ll meet one and fall in love.”
“Trust me, it’s overrated,” I mutter.
Gracie’s smile wavers.
Leah smirks like she has a secret.
“I’m sure assistant coaches are great, Gracie,” I add, covering my blunder, given her husband’s proximity to the sport.
We sit down at a table and chat about the upcoming game. Margo said she’s going to meet us, but the complimentary popcorn in the fishbowl is mostly gone because I’m stress eating it. The struggle is real.
Miguel repeatedly flashes me his smile.
It doesn’t make me feel warm all over.
He winks at me when someone asks him and the others to sign something.
I’m over him. Totally and completely.
I ignore how charismatic he is.
He’s just another handsome face. That’s all.
“So, have you picked a grand opening date for the salon?” Gracie asks.
