Page 10 of Game Changer
“Like how we’re sitting in his personal seats because hepersonallygave you hispersonaltickets when he visited you at work for the third time this week?”
Kip was blushing now. “He’s just superstitious,” he mumbled, “that’s all.”
The players came out on the ice to warm up. Kip watched them all skate around, go down on the ice to stretch, take turns lobbing easy shots at their goalies. He tried, but failed, to not pay too much extra attention to #21, Scott Hunter. The man was doing a deep lunging hamstring stretch that showed how flexible he was. Kip imagined what that position might look like without the heavily padded hockey pants.
His undersexed brain took him on a wonderful journey for a few minutes, and he was so distracted that he almost didn’t notice when Hunter skated by the glass in front of them—looking like he’d skated right off a promotional poster in his crisp red, white, and blue uniform—and nodded at him.
No. Not at me. Must be at someone sitting behind me.
Kip turned his head. There was no one sitting behind him yet. No one in front of him either.
Huh.
The warm-up wrapped up, the Zambonis came out to clear the ice, and then the spectacle that was the pre-game show started. The lights went out and videos of the Admirals in action were projected onto the ice while rock music blared. There was dry ice and pyrotechnics, and when the players came storming out, the place hit a fever pitch.
Kip was struck by two things: Scott Hunter was a big star. Like,reallybig. A mammoth superstar athlete and this citylovedhim. It seemed like half the people in the crowd were wearing his jersey. And when Scott’s name was announced as the game’s starting center, the crowd was deafening. He was not just a guy who liked blueberry smoothies and was nice to the shop clerks who made them. This guywasNew York.
And Kip was here ashisguest.
Holy fuck.
The other thing that struck him was that Scott commanded a lot of respect from his teammates. Kip could see the way the younger players would glow when he clapped them on the shoulder and complimented them on a good play. Even the referees seemed to like him, giving him little taps on the elbow after they explained a penalty decision to him.
The game was incredible. Scott was incredible. He not only scored a goal each period and assisted on another one, he also made the crowd roar when he leveled a Tampa winger near center ice with a huge hip check. Kip was the most impressed when Scott broke up a fight before it happened, calming his teammate down with a firm hold on his arm and words that Kip wished he could have heard.
It was undeniably sexy to watch Scott displaying so much skill and authority throughout the game. He was spectacular.
“That was so fucking great!” Kip said, far too loudly, as they made their way to the subway after the game. “I want to go to another one! I want to go to all of them!”
“Well, you’ll have to wait, superfan,” Elena said. “The Admirals hit the road for the next two weeks.”
Kip should not have felt as devastated as he did by that news. Suddenly the idea of working an entire shift without seeing Scott seemed unbearable.
When he was at home in bed that night, he couldn’t help but wonder if Scott was at all unhappy about going on the road, away from his safe routine.
He was being stupid. Scott was a professional hockey player who wasnotgoing to be missing his dumb smoothies while on the road. Kip sighed, and resigned himself to at least two weeks of Scott Hunter–free shifts at work.
Chapter Three
Scott watched the island of Manhattan disappear as the plane pushed through the thick clouds that had covered the city for days.
He felt off, but he didn’t know why. It had nothing to do with his game because he was playing better than he had all season. The team was on a winning streak, and they were free of any major injuries. Plus, the team’s private plane was taking them to Phoenix, which would give them a nice break from the bitter cold of January in New York.
His agent was happy again, at least. A couple of weeks ago Scott had received a very panicked call from Todd Wheeler, the man who had represented him since his college hockey days.
“We’re in real trouble here,” Todd had said. “The sponsors don’t like what they’re seeing from you. Gillette is saying they won’t renew next year. Even Under Armour is getting nervous. FuckingUnder Armour, Scott! We can’t lose them!”
If the conversation was supposed to have motivated Scott, it hadn’t worked. It wasn’t like he hadn’t known he was playing terribly, or that he had been happy about it.
“Believe me, Todd,” Scott had said. “No one is more disappointed in me than I am.”
But yesterday Scott had received a very different phone call.
“Whatever you did to get your game back, keep doing it!” a relieved-sounding Todd had said.
Except Scott couldn’t keep doing it. He would be on the road for two weeks, mostly playing teams in the Western Conference. The Admirals had seven games scheduled, ending with one in Toronto, before they flew home. Scott never minded being on the road. He liked his teammates, and he wasn’t a nervous flyer like some of them. He also, unlike most of the team, didn’t have a wife and kids that he had to leave behind.
But for the first time in his career, Scott felt—absurdly—like he was leaving someone behind.
