Page 22 of The Cutting Edge
"Nah, I'm just that good," I shoulder-check him as the puck sails by, intended for Zayne. I snag it before it reaches Zayne, turn it around, and make my way back toward the goal.
Goal number five hits the back of the net, and my teammates are patting me on the back as I circle the rink. I could play like this all day all night and never stop.
"RIVERS!" barks Coach Rocco, and I head over to where he's standing. He’s my favorite coach on the team – he looks like somebody's grandpa just wandered into the rink with his newsboy cap and his baggy team polo, but he’s got a brain like an automotive engineer wired for hockey. There’s nobody in the league who can deconstruct or reconstruct your slapshot better than Rocco.
As I pull up he says, "You're having a hell of a practice," he says. "You gonna save some puck for your teammates?"
"Nope," I grin as I take off again.
"Good man, captain," he says, "make 'em work for it."
Four hours and six goals later, I'm soaked with sweat, grinning like an idiot, and still not ready to leave the ice.
I feel untouchable and I never want it to end.
Chapter nine
Coco
I’llconfess,Iwasa bit surprised that Logan texted to check in on me.
Seven times.
And sent a massive bouquet of gardenias with a card that read:
Hoping you’re feeling much better. And that you’re not looking for a rematch. – LoganAnd even more surprised when he showed up at the hospital at six pm on the dot, bearing lobster from Ocean Prime, one of the more upscale seafood restaurants in the area. Not that I can afford to eat there. I could buy groceries for a week for what one dinner there would run me.
“I don’t know what your training diet is, but you can never go wrong with lobster and steamed veggies. Plus, hospital food is generally terrible. No one should have to suffer through that,” says Logan, taking up half the room the second he walks through the doorway.
“Are you like, stealth trying to take me on a dinner date?” I tease, eyeing the bag. Not that I’m complaining. He’s looking like a snack himself in a custom navy suit with a pale blue shirt and a deeper blue tie that brings out his eyes and makes him look every inch the NHL star. Plus, whatever’s in that bag smells heavenly.
“Me? Nah. Now where did I put those candles…”
“Har, har.”
“How are you feeling?” he asks, his dark eyes focused with concern.
“I still have some dizziness and a pretty bad headache, which stubbornly refuses to be calmed with the usual pain relievers. Other than that, I’ve had my fill of daytime television and bland food. I work a lot, so I thought it might be nice to have a day off where I literally couldn’t do anything, but I was wrong. I’m antsy and ready to blow this pop stand.”
“When are they letting you out of here?” he asks. “I thought they were turning you loose today.”
“No idea,” I say. “A physician’s assistant woke me up at the crack of dawn to tell me that the doctor would be speaking to me later today, but no one has been here yet. Maybe they forgot about me.”
“I doubt that,” says Logan. “You’re not the kind of person who’s easy to forget.”
I can barely stifle my smile. This guy is the best kind of trouble.
“What’s in the bag?” I ask, as he rearranges my hospital room to create a makeshift table for two out of the rolling bed table, the bed, and the recliner. The bed table is a lot higher than a normal table would be, so even as tall as he is, the table hits him mid-neck when he sits in the recliner opposite me. Kind of like a baby in a highchair.
“Hmmm…” he says, eyes darting around the room in search of a better solution.
“It might be easier if you just sat on the opposite side of the bed from me.”
“Are you sure you don’t mind?”
“Well, you did bring me lobster,” I say. “It would be rude to have to eat it in front of you just because you were too short to reach the table.”
“Too short,” he laughs.
