Page 17 of Bagging the Blueliner
Starting at Right Defense—Cal Berg.
Starting at Left Defense—Luka Winters.
Starting in Net—Reed Wilder.
Each man took their place on the blue line, with the goalie hanging back, standing closer to his net. I ventured through the glass doors and onto the red carpet rolled over the ice.
Showtime.
Walking down the carpet’s length, I waved at the crowd as my name was announced as the anthem singer. Larger than life, a live feed showed my entrance on the big screen, clad in a navy blue and gray Comets jersey and blue jeans.
When I took on the role, I decided to do something different. I requested a complete set of home jerseys from the equipment staff, and each year, roster changes added to my impressive collection.
Forty-one regular season home games, plus a few additional pre-season and playoff games, meant I could wear each player’s jersey at least twice over the course of a season. It was a random rotation, but the players loved it. Especially the players who weren’t the top-line guys and often didn’t get representation from fans in the stand. It was my pleasure to make them feel special and seen.
Tonight, I wore the number nineteen with the last name Bond stitched across the nameplate. Casper Bond was a newer player on the fourth line, and I gave a little wink in his direction when I reached the end of the red carpet.
All eyes on me, I lifted the microphone a few inches from my lips and belted out our national anthem, the words and tune automatic after all these years. There was no fear, no nerves, just me and the music. Exactly the way I liked it.
Drawing out the last note as the crowd’s applause grew in volume, the adrenaline rush that performing gave washed over my body.
I only knew of one high more intense than the one I received while singing, and as I left the ice, I was that much closer to achieving both highs in one night.
Indy Speed, I’m coming for you.
Spades was hopping tonight.
The DJ must have gotten the memo on my mood because the beats were sultry and sexy. Perfect for a little bit of foreplay known as dirty dancing. I was experienced in the ways of silently indicating to a man that I wanted to take the party elsewhere, and I fully intended to put them to good use tonight.
Jake found me the second I walked in, congratulating the Comets on their win over the Wolves but teasing they’d better prepare for a loss tomorrow against the Speed. Placing a hand on his forearm, I asked if his players needed help accessing the VIP section. Eyes dropping to where I touched him, a smile graced his lips before he nodded enthusiastically—too enthusiastically.
Letting him lead me to the bar, where a handful of Speed players sat with beers in hand, he introduced them—Maddox Sterling, Jenner Knight, Asher Lawson, and Wyatt Banks.
God bless Jake.
He’d brought me four gorgeous specimens, including the one I’d had my eye on when searching for fresh meat in free agency. Jenner Knight was just as impressive in person as he’d been on film, but tonight, I had options. There was no need to get hasty and choose one too soon.
A small thrill ran through me when all four sized me up.
Running home quickly after the game, I had redone my makeup, giving myself a smokey eye allowing my blue eyes to pop. Pulling my hair from my high ponytail, I’d curled it—thank God for automatic curling irons. Then, a quick swipe of pheromone oil behind my ears was my secret weapon; men couldn’t resist it, but too often, it attracted the duds.
The dress I wore had sat in my closet for months, waiting for the perfect opportunity to take her for a night on the town. Tonight was that night. Popping the tags, I’d forced my body into the tight black bodycon dress. Like a second skin, it hugged my body with a one-shoulder crisscross strap, featuring cutouts up the right-side panel from the hem to my ribs—underwear was not an option. A pair of strappy black hooker heels completed my look.
Nobody would believe the girl next door at the game in a jersey and jeans was the same woman who stood under the flashing lights of the club now.
Curling my finger in a come-hither motion, I turned and skirted the edge of the dance floor until we reached the velvet rope at the bottom of a set of stairs. I gave a wink to the bouncer standing guard, and he instantly unclipped the rope, allowing us to pass.
Reaching the VIP section overlooking the crush on the dance floor, I scanned the area. None of the Comets players were there yet, but I knew they needed showers and had interviews to complete before they could venture out to celebrate the win.
I’d gotten a head start on the night.
Good.
I didn’t need one of my “big brothers” tattling to Daddy.
The “protective older brother” routine was getting old, and I caught myself before I rolled my eyes at the thought. A majority of the team was younger than me at this point. I was a big girl, and it was nobody’s business whom I slept with—including my father’s.
Operation Hook a Hockey Player was on.
