Page 21 of Her Goal
Eyes stinging, they’re so wide, I ask, “Did you say Robo?”
“Yeah.”
“As in Hudson Roboveitchek?”
She lifts her hand for a high five. “Way to go pronouncing his last name. I’m surprised it fits on the back of his jersey. Then again, he does have broad shoulders like most hockey players. If you were playing Emerson’s game, you’d get ten points and a cupcake.”
“A cupcake?” I stutter.
She lifts a shoulder. “Yeah. Video games should give out cupcakes instead of coins. It’s cuter.”
Or they could give out little digital darts that you can throw at a digital photo of the Knights new goalie as a bonus level.
“I can’t do it,” I blurt.
She frowns. “But you already said you would.”
“It was a non-binding yes.” I steal a long sip from her soda.
“I can’t do it either and Cara doesn’t want to hire someone from the outside who doesn’t know hockey the way you do. You’re the perfect match.”
I nearly gag on my sip as heat rises to my cheeks.
“We’re so not the perfect anything,” I say hoarsely.
“You’ll get paid NHL money and receive home game season tickets.”
“Chuck already gives me access to all the games.”
“You’re a Knights superfan. Maybe you’ll get your very own once-upon-a-hockey romance.”
I shake my head, really wishing I could curl up on my bed and scroll through cake illustration videos where followers challenge incredibly talented bakers to draw things from their infants to geometric designs on baked goods. Instead, I get to my feet and tend to a few of my tables, delivering food, closing out checks, and coming up with zero ways to back out of this.
Heidi devours a loaded potato skin pub puck that Emerson dropped off at her table while tapping away one-handed on her phone.
I expect her to have to leave, given her role as the Knights’ Social Media Coordinator, the mother of two, and wife to Grady Federer, defenseman extraordinaire. But she helps herself to another soda while chatting with our cook before returning to her table with extra bacon and sour cream for her potato skins.
A regular customer couldn’t get away with making themselves at home in the dining room of a hockey pub, but not only did she used to work here, she’s also Stan—the owner’s—niece.
Then the alternate reality video game I’ve suddenly found myself in, like Jumanji, turns into Nightmare Express.
On a gust of autumn air, Hudson Roboveitchek struts into the dining room like he knows everyone is checking him out.
Not me. Instead, my heart racing, I make a beeline for the walk-in freezer.
Before I escape, the cook calls, “Leah, order up.”
I shouldn’t look to see if Robo overheard that above the clamor in the restaurant, but I do. It’s a mistake because it sends a rush of animosity through me that makes my gears grind to a halt.
Gliding into the Fish Bowl like royalty returned from a siege-works campaign, Hunter’s brother peruses the room. His attention hops over table six, consisting of the eager puck bunnies with dye jobs. Then again, thanks to Valentina, I no longer sport my natural color either.
Tall and athletic with a posture that reveals the rippling muscles of his back, he turns slowly, dripping with charisma that draws all eyes to him.
His chiseled features and sharp jawline are the envy of men. Those objectively perfect lips, and the smirk in his heavy gaze, are the longing of women.
Then, before I can escape, a pair of rich cocoa-brown eyes meet mine.
I’ve been spotted, so I do what any logical person would do. I duck behind the life-size tin knight dressed in a Nebraska Knights hockey uniform, guarding the jukebox.
