Page 38 of You Had Me at Hockey

That’ll be me along with forwards Bergie, JBo, and Easton. Millsy, everyone else calls him. Great.

So much for not making any changes. And no pressure on me at all. Obviously our new coach thinks we need to change things up. As he talks about it in the meeting, Millsy sits there with his arms crossed, his face grim. I guess I know how he feels about this move. JBo and Bergie are more open, nodding.

“We have to have a threat on the blue line,” Coach says. “Josh’s shot is like a howitzer. Plus he has a right-handed shot that should work well with Bergie being the hub.”

He goes over some plays on the whiteboard and I focus on that rather than Millsy’s sour expression. If I’m going to do this, I’m going to do my best. I mean, I always do my best, but sometimes you need to really prove yourself. I’m new here and I want these guys to know I can do this. I especially want Millsy to know I can do this.

I’m a warrior.

After the meeting, I work out, finishing with a massage from Jack, our massage therapist. I’m kind of banged up after the last few games and those shots I blocked, so it feels great to have him dig his strong hands into my tight muscles.

Then I head to the hotel to get ready for my date.

I’m sick of this hotel already. It’s really nice, but it’s not home.

I’ve made the dinner reservation for five. Fire Tastes and Taps is a more casual place but apparently has great food. I’m wearing jeans this time, with a button-down shirt left untucked and a casual sport jacket over it.

This time I pay the taxi driver since we can walk to the restaurant from Sara’s. It’s not even that cold today. The doorman sends me up to Sara’s apartment and she opens her door to let me in.

Christ, she’s pretty.

As usual, her hair is down, long, wild, and wavy. She too is wearing jeans, dark skinny ones that hug her long legs, rolled to just above her flat ankle boots, and topped with a long-sleeved, silky, leopard-print blouse. The V opening dips daringly low between her breasts but shows nothing but smooth skin.

“Hey,” she says in her smoky voice. “How are you?”

“Good. Great. Especially now.” My gaze moves over her. “You look amazing.”

“Thank you! You too. Let me grab my purse and my coat.”

I wander farther into the living room while she disappears into her bedroom, returning with a small bag. She pulls her beige faux-fur coat out of the closet and I move behind her to help her into it.

“You’re such a gentleman,” she says, flipping her hair out from under the coat. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

The air outside is crisp, the city glittering around us as we stroll along Second Avenue, then cut over a block to Third. We approach the entrance of the restaurant, flanked by shrubs sparkling with tiny white lights, a neon sign glowing above the door. The front is all glass windows, the inside shadowy and glimmering with lights and bottles and glass.

The décor is an interesting mix—worn wooden floor, simple wood tables and chairs, contrasting with elaborate crystal chandeliers and heavy velvet curtains separating the bar from the restaurant. Our table is at the window.

“This is nice,” Sara says as she takes her seat, looking out the window at the passing pedestrian and vehicle traffic.

So far, so good.

It’s busy here and the place is buzzy with conversation and music, the clink of cutlery and glass.

“I just want you to know I’m prepared for anything to happen,” I tell her as we pick up our menus.

She laughs. “I’d like to reassure you that the evening will be uneventful, but I don’t know if I should make any promises.”

“Fair.” I grin.

We discuss drinks and food, place our orders, then chat as we drink our old-fashioneds. I don’t drink a lot of cocktails, but this place specializes in them along with a vast array of draft beers.

“This is so good.” Sara licks her lips after tasting her drink.

“I thought you might order something…” I pause.

She lifts an eyebrow. “Something…what?”

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