Page 9 of Pucker Up
Goldie didn’t try to hide her smile. I reached into my pocket and put a hundred-dollar bill on the table. It couldn’t have worked out better; this was my way to pay for lunch.
“Should we double the wager?” Goldie leaned her elbows on the table. “How long until someone comes up for a selfie? Or someone asks if you’re ever going to be able to get a five-hole shot past Bellamy.”
Bellamy was the league’s top goalie, and played for one of our biggest rivals, Vegas. He was known for his flexibility, and the only way players could score against him was between the pads. “How do you know about Bellamy?” I asked. I noticed that she’d avoided the question about hating hockey players.
“Everyone knows that’s the only shot that’s gotten by him this season.”
The waitress returned with our drinks. We thanked her, but I didn’t take my eyes off Goldie. Smart, sexy, beautiful, and knew about hockey… Had I won the lottery?
“All right. I think that people will wait until I’m done eating to come up for a selfie, and I don’t think that anyone will ever get a puck past Bellamy.”
She folded her hands and leaned her chin on her knuckles. “I bet you that someone will interrupt your lunch, and I think that you’re right about Bellamy.”
The world around me disappeared and the only thing that I could see or hear was Goldie. “It’s a bet.” I reached my hand across the table, and she unlaced hers to shake mine. My heart thumped as she squeezed my hand tightly. Her hands were small and soft, but felt strong and capable. “Only if you tell me why you seem to hate hockey players so much, yet know so much about the game.”
The deep breath she took made it obvious that I had skated into unwelcome territory.
“I love hockey.” She smiled. “I think that when it’s done well, it’s the most beautiful sport in the world. There’s nothing better than watching a perfectly executed play. In my opinion, there’s no better athlete than a big player who is also nimble. Some of those players have more edge control than the best figure skaters out there.”
My heart swelled. Maybe I didn’t have to prove anything to her at all. Maybe her hatred of the game had been in my head.
Our pizzas arrived and we tapped our glasses together before devouring them. I offered her a bite of mine and she accepted, giggling as the cheese stretched and slapped her on the chin. Instinctively, I reached across the table to wipe at her chin with my thumb, but she beat me to it with her napkin.
Over pepperoncini and mozzarella, I discovered that she was a master’s student at the University of Toronto and had moved a lot as a kid. We spent the rest of the lunch talking about Morton and the dogs that we’d had growing up. Her family had been a fan of rescue dogs, where mine had been into labrador retrievers named after the seven dwarfs.
“You’re joking.” She laughed. “So you had a dog named Dopey?”
“Yep. And Sneezy. And get this, he could sneeze on command.”
Tears had formed in her eyes as her laughing continued. “Well, ours were not much better. They were named after hockey players.”
Her wine was finished, so she sipped on her glass of water.
“Let me guess.” I’d discovered that Goldie was twenty-five, so if her parents were in their fifties, that would make them fans of the idols I’d had growing up. “You had a Coffey.”
“Yep.” She nodded.
I tapped my finger on my lip. “What about a Lindros?”
She laughed. “No way. My dad hated that guy. You’re forgetting a pretty major one.”
“Gretzky!” I raised my arms in the air as though I’d just scored.
“You got it. He was my favorite.”
The conversation flowed easily, and time either came to a stand still or flew right by. I couldn’t tell.
She dabbed her lips with her napkin and sighed. “I guess I lost that bet.”
“Wait. Were you drawing out that conversation to give someone time to ask me for my autograph?”
She held up her hands in front of her. “Guilty.”
Exactly three seconds after the waitress cleared our plates a man with his kid approached the table. “Excuse me.” The father pushed his son towards me. The kid looked to be about ten years old. He was shy and leaned into his father. “Are you Ace Bailey?”
“I am. Would you like a photo?” I took the phone from the man’s hands. “What’s your name?” I asked the boy, whose face transformed with a wide grin.
“I’m Matthew.”
