Page 37 of Pucker Up
“In preparation for this study,” I added, hoping that I wasn’t coming across as a stalker. Ace had no idea that I had grown up watching games and was well versed in the minutiae of the game.
“Sure.” He winked. He took his hands from mine and his Adam’s apple bobbed as he chugged another glass of water. The man sure knew how to hydrate.
I shook my head and tried to stop the blush from traveling hard and fast down my throat and to my chest underneath the fully buttoned-up blouse. “Tonight. In the third period of the game… If you’re on the left side of the net and number four passes you the puck, I think that you should fake a low shot and then go over his left shoulder.”
Ace clapped his hand to his mouth, but not before he spat the water onto the polished floor of the conference room. “That’s not what I was expecting.”
The heat from our flirtation was replaced with a different kind—embarrassment. I shouldn’t have said anything. Who the hell was I to tell Ace Bailey what to do with the puck? “Sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything. That’s what I would tell you, if I were the coach though.”
“You need to watch a few more tapes, Professor.” He wiped his hands on his pants. “I play right wing, and number four and I are never on the ice together.”
“It was just a thought,” I mumbled. I pulled my hands off the table and squeezed them into fists beneath its surface.
The smile never left his face. “I like your enthusiasm though. If I find myself on the wrong side of the ice, on the wrong line, I will fake low and aim for the shoulder on a guy who only let pucks through the five hole.”
When he said it out loud, I realized how ludicrous it was. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”
Ace leaned back in his chair, the front legs lifting off the ground. “You were trying to distract me from the real question.”
The legs clunked on the ground as he dropped forward, his eyes glued to mine. “We’ve got something here.” He pointed to me and then to him. “So why did you say no?”
Relieved to be onto a new, but equally uncomfortable subject, I crossed my arms. “I already told you. I don’t date hockey players. And now, you’re a subject in my study. I don’t date my hockey-playing subjects.”
THIRTEEN
ACE
Most of thecorporate seats were empty and the energy in the arena was dull. We weren’t losing, but it was a boring game for the spectators. Las Vegas had scored early in the first period and now it was the middle of the third, and people just wanted to get out of the stadium before the game traffic hit the Gardiner Expressway.
Gideon sat at the end of the bench, where his butt had been parked all night, his arms crossed as his eyes followed the puck. He hadn’t spoken to anyone, and had kept to himself in the dressing room.
I avoided looking at Gideon and found myself staring at the jumbotron. I usually ignored it, but I was a sucker for the look-a-like cam. Photos of celebrities and well-known personalities were put on the screen next to someone in the crowd who resembled them. The crowd loved it, and so did I.
Maggie Simpson came on the screen and the camera man panned to a woman holding a little baby in a snowsuit, its face hidden by a giant soother. The crowd gave a collective “aw” and then Zooey Deschanel came on the screen. The camera panned to the owner’s box to a brown-haired girl with glasses. She waseating popcorn and laughing, and then her friend pointed to the screen. She clapped her hand over her mouth and knocked the popcorn off her lap.
My heart stopped. Or at least it felt like it took a break from its job of beating in my chest. It was Goldie.
An elbow jutted into my ribs. Ethan pointed to the screen with his stick. “It’s Hot Tits.”
“Excuse me?” Coach’s voice grumbled behind us. The man heard everything.
“Nothing, Coach.” Ethan stared straight ahead.
When the game resumed, Ethan slung his leg over the boards. “Wait,” Coach shouted. “Ace, you’re up. Ethan is sitting this one out.”
Ethan’s face screwed up so hard he looked like he had eaten a lemon, but he slid back onto the bench. I gave coach a quizzical look, but he gave me a shooing motion and mouthed,Get going.
I glided to the left side of the rink. Skating on the opposite side felt like jerking off with the wrong hand: it was doable, but it didn’t come naturally.
Glancing at the game clock, I saw we had two more minutes of play. Knowing that Goldie was sitting in the stands had made my palms sweaty, and I was embarrassed that the game had been lacklustre. I also wondered how she’d scored tickets to the owner’s box.
The referee’s whistle brought me back to the present. I realized I was playing left wing and that Mikey Holmes, number four, was across from me. Bellamy was like a boulder in front of the net, and he stood poised and ready to stop any shot that came at him.
I shook my head, trying to get Goldie’s suggestion out of my brain, but it refused to leave, jangling around in my mind like it was caught on some cobwebs that wouldn’t let it go.
Banksy won the faceoff and took off with the puck. I surged up the left side, keeping an eye on Holmes. Banksy dropped the puck back to number four who immediately passed it to me. I was at my top speed and was able to stickhandle past the Las Vegas defenseman. My foot stung as his stick slapped at the boot of my skate, but it wasn’t enough to throw me off.
The five hole was the only place to go with Bellamy. I’d have to be crazy to try anything other than that shot. My brain told me not to do it, but my body had already faked a low shot. Bellamy dropped to his knees and I flipped the puck up, which dropped over his left shoulder.
