Page 84 of Banter & Blushes

HAT TRICK FOR HER HEART: A SWEET HOCKEY ROMCOM

DINEEN MILLER

CHAPTER 1

ETHAN

“What do you think of the new team owner?” I slip my foot into a skate and start working the laces. The rest of the guys are in varying stages of gearing up for practice before a film session to review footage of our last two games with our new coach.

After what happened with our former coach and previous owner, we’re all on edge. Last season, we went from being an up-and-coming team in the ECHL to the stray dog no one wanted. We knew something was up when our coach started making drastic cuts to our budget. That continued for over a year until the scandal broke that he’d embezzled money to pay his bookie, who was also his girlfriend, by the way.

I mean, finding out our coach was betting against us, and using the organization’s money to do it? That’s a solid punch in the gut if there ever was one. But then the owner dismantled the franchise until Rebecca Piedmont put an offer on the table.

To say it’s been a tumultuous six months is a massive understatement. The Florida Sun Kings have a long history in Sarabella. The tourists come for the beaches during the summer, but Sun King fans stay year-round. But even they’re not sure about their favorite ice hockey team anymore.

“A little too soon to tell, my fine friend, but if first impressions count, she’s got my vote,” Wade drawls.

Wade Pierce is our goaltender and the best in our division. We call him “thepuck wrangler” because he’s from Texas, and he’s a bona fide cowboy. His family owns a ranch and growing up, if he wasn’t on the ice, he was on a horse. Even with skates and all that padding, he still has a swagger.

Elias Bruner, another defenseman like me, joins the convo. “She seems fine.”

That guy lives up to his Swiss neutrality on a regular basis. The only time I’ve seen him take a side is when he plays hockey and thank goodness he’s on mine. Getting traded—or called up if you’re lucky—is part of this gig, but I don’t think I’d like being on the opposite side of a face-off with him.

One of our forwards, Payton Maxwell, opens the upper cabinet above his locker cubby, which makes a snapping noise, resulting in the door hanging lopsided. “Bloody hell, I hope she speeds along getting this place sorted out.”

Now, Payton, he’s our guy to get the biscuit into the net. I don’t always get his British humor, but on the ice, he’s all business. And I mean, like a Fortune 500 CEO. The man finesses the puck like few I’ve seen in the ECHL.

I finish lacing my skates and grab my stick. “Her father was Sam Piedmont.”

All eyes are on me now because they know that name. A legend in his time and one of the greatest hockey players overall, he rocked it as a coach, too. What I would have given to have been a player on his team. The man left this world much too soon.

“Hope she brought her daddy’s playbook, ’cuz we need all the help we can get.” Wade taps the toe of his hockey stick against his helmet, much like I imagine he’d tip a cowboy hat.

French Canadian Mathéo Barbier—aka Barbie-man, which he hates, by the way—says something in his native tongue. We all stare at him, waiting for the translation.

He rolls his eyes. “I’m more interested in hearing what Coach Markelson has planned for our comeback.”

Derek, our assistant coach, walks into the locker room. “The day isn’t getting any longer, fellas. Time to get out there.”

After a few mutterings and some strategic jabs at the slow pokes, we head down the tunnel to the arena to do flow drills first, then move on to some scrimmages Derek recycled from our previous coach’s playbook. He’s great at the assistant part, but we need a full-blown coach if we’re going to recover from the disgrace last season turned into.

But I make the best of it. Time on the ice is the best part of my day, and the only way to improve is to give it everything I’ve got. Which is what I’m about to do with the puck I stole from one of our rookies.

I fly down the ice, getting ready to execute a slapshot when I see her.

She’s standing behind the boards, to the right of the net, taking pictures with her phone. Normally, we’re the only ones here during practice, so I have no idea if she’s a new hire or a fan who somehow found a way in.

Focus gone, I give myself a mental shake and regroup, but now I’m too close to attempt an effective shot and have to change tactics. But I can’t stop my gaze from jumping to her.

I have to take a shot on goal before Jayce, our newest rookie, tries to steal the puck back. He’s right behind me, ready to turn this into a scrum against the boards.

Although, a puck battle would put me right in front of her. I slow just enough to let him catch up as I pretend I’m going to take the shot. He tries to slide in on my left, but I shift, blocking him. He crosschecks me, slamming us both against the boards.

Her yelp freezes me. Was she that close to the plexiglass that she felt the hit? Just as I straighten, intending to check on her, Jayce steals the puck, hooking my skate in the maneuver.

I go down. Hard.

Flat on my back with the wind knocked out of me, I look up to see her hands pressed against the glass, staring down at me with ocean blue eyes and sandy blonde hair to match the shore.

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