Page 22 of Her Goal
My head and heart hum loudly because I’m certain Hudson Roboveitchek saw me.
… again.
It must be this guilty conscience or something that has me all fluttery and flustered.
8
HUDSON
The only thingdifferent about O’Neely’s Fish Bowl since the last time I was in here are the games on the televisions. I pass one, airing the second of the seven finals games from last season of the Knights matched up against the Titans. The other TVs show older games, which may very well be the same repeats from when I previously stepped foot in this building.
But maybe it’s not so bad that this place hasn’t changed. It’s comforting in a way. However, as I near the life-size knight in not-so-shining armor—clad in a tattered hockey uniform covered in faded Sharpie signatures, I momentarily wonder why Mikey had a permanent marker when the guys crashed my house for dinner.
Evidence of mischief pending.
That and someone I recognize running for cover the second I walked through the door.
I approach the knight statue that’s been standing sentry since I was a kid. Instead of a sword between his metal gloves, he holds a hockey stick. You can say what you want about Cobbiton, but it does have character and a whole lot of love for my preferred sport.
The edge of a woman’s shoulder peeks out the side, along with the tuft of the end of a blonde topknot above the knight’s helmet. The metal rattles briefly as if she moved. Then comes a squeak, which I recognize as a little sneeze.
What do we have here?
A shy fan? A friend? A foe? Someone on the run?
No, it’s Leah Smith. I’m sure of it, even though she looked different from the last time I saw her at a game alongside her brother Chuck.
The moment I pause in front of the knight, it starts tipping forward like a booby trap.
I brace it at the same time as a pair of feminine hands wrap around its middle to keep it from clattering to the floor. My fingers overlap hers and she quickly draws them away, but not before leaving me with a live wire, electric burning sensation I’d all but forgotten about. She wears a bandage on one finger, reminding me briefly of the last email I got from my secret adversary. Not everyone hates me, as evidenced by the eyelash-fluttering looks cast my way from the women seated in the booth when I walked in.
Peeking around the statue, I say, “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
Leah lets out a nervous laugh in reply.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Cleaning.” Her nose wiggles like she’s resisting another sneeze.
“Dusty back there?”
“Very.”
“Care to come out?”
“No. I’m, um, just tending to Goalwain the Green Knight Gretzky.”
I chuckle. “Clever name. But seriously, what are you doing here?” I belatedly realize I sound condescending like I’minsulting her for still working at the Fish Bowl. More like trying to tease out the odd behavior, possibly confirming my hunch is correct, she was the one who was sneaking into my house the other day.
Leah huffs and as if not missing a beat from where we left off years ago, I get her gloriously defiant smile. “Where else would I be?”
I gesture vaguely behind me. “Out there chasing your dreams ... or taking care of your tables. That kid over there looks like he’s about ready to eat his own hand if he doesn’t get his chicken ‘goal’ tenders soon.”
She laughs dryly.
My gaze skates from her cat-like eyes to her O’Neely’s T-shirt and dark jeans over a pair of legs that go on for days and down to a pair of leopard print Vans. The cartoonish figure on the shirt is exactly as I remember, donning hockey gear and floating inside a glass fish bowl. Thankfully, I don’t hang out in one of those.
Fish bowls filled with complimentary popcorn top each occupied table. When things were tight at home, Hunter and I would sometimes come here and eat it until the waitstaff cut us off or the buzzer sounded, signaling after-hours when it became more of a pub and less of a family establishment. If I recall, they swap the popcorn in the fish bowls for suds.
