Page 53 of Must Love Dogs… and Hockey

“Sure.”

She sets down Otis and I watch her move to the tiny kitchen. Her hair is on top of her head in a bunch of messy loops. She’s wearing pink-and-gray flannel pajama pants and a huge, baggy gray sweatshirt. The loose clothes hide her shape, but I can’t take my eyes off her as I shrug out of my overcoat.

She returns with a glass of wine, Otis padding after her. When she sits on the couch, he jumps up beside her. I take the glass and sit on the couch too, Otis between us. Well, he got me in the door, I guess I can’t be too annoyed at that.

She picks up the remote and turns off the TV, then relaxes back into the couch cushions with her own glass of wine. “Bad night?”

“Fuck.” I take a gulp of wine. “Fuck, yeah.”

“It was so close,” she says. “I thought you guys had it when Bergen scored that goal. Only a few minutes left.”

“We lost because of me.” My voice is harsh. I drink more wine.

She frowns, then rolls her eyes. “Oh, come on.”

“Seriously. Coach reamed my ass out and trashed me in front of the whole team over that pass I tried to make.”

“Oh no.” She sips her wine, regarding me over the rim of her glass with warm eyes. “The goal wasn’t all your fault, though.”

I rub my jaw. “I was stupid. I should’ve just shot the puck at the net. Idiot.”

“Hey. Your coach does enough of a number on you. You don’t need to do it to yourself.”

I blow out a breath. “Right.”

“I guess I don’t know the game well enough to understand what happened. It was so fast. But it seemed to me that when they got that breakaway, your defense guys should have stopped them.”

“Yeah. Bad move by Jammer too, getting caught deep.”

“Jammer?”

“Jamal Jordan.”

“Ah.”

“Not to mention your goalie should have stopped that shot.”

A reluctant smile teases my lips.

“Andthe one in overtime,” she adds firmly. “Like, come on, no hockey player ever claims hewonthe game all by himself, right?”

I frown. “Of course not.”

“Therefore, no player loses the game all by himself either.”

“You’re right.” More tension eases out of my muscles. I know that. I’ve had teamwork drilled into me since I was six years old. But hearing her tell me that in her soft but confident voice, even though she doesn’t realize how atrocious my mistake was, somehow relaxes me and quiets the shit I’m giving myself in my head.

Otis jumps down from the couch, walks over to the fireplace, and curls up on the floor.

I lean my head back and close my eyes.

“You’re still wearing your suit.”

I roll my head and open one eye. “Yeah.” I tug at the knot of my tie. “I just grabbed Otis’s leash when I got home. I could get rid of this.” I toss my tie aside and unbutton the top buttons of my shirt.

“You look hot in a suit.”

Did she really just say that?

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