Page 7 of Her Goal
Someone mutters, “The last guy got a dog of the day in a pooping pose tear-off calendar.”
I wrinkle my nose. Should I consider myself lucky?
Mikey Cruz wipes his feet and looks me up and down while twisting a permanent marker in his fingers. “Hudson Robo …” He gives up on pronouncing my last name. Maybe that’s what the marker is for. “The last time we were in the same room, I was scoring on you against the Rangers.”
I recognize the guys from games when we were on opposing teams.
“What’s with people just coming into my house?” I murmur, feeling very much like Bilbo fromThe Hobbitwhen the dwarves intrude for dinner.
Hayden Savage, left winger, says, “You should lock your doors.”
“No one does in Cobbiton.” Redd shrugs. He’s Hayden’s counterpart, playing right forward.
“Locks only keep honest people out.” Beaumont Hammer, the other goalie, grunts.
“Or future wives,” Hayden says, elbowing Jack Bouchelle, the Knights’ newest center. Like me, he was recently traded—he came from the Carolina Storm rather than Texas.
Jack smirks. “It was a surprise to find Goldilocks in my hotel room bed when I got in from my flight. But it worked out rather nicely.”
I grumble, not at all pleased about the burglar this morning. Though, to be fair, if it was Leah, it was more of areturningthan athievingoperation. Well, sort of. Rightfully, Howie isn’t mine.
Sounds like Jack has a story there, but why are theyhere? I’ve played for three other teams and never has anyone shown up unannounced and barged into my home.
Redd claps his hand on my shoulder. “You ready for this?”
Just then, rowdy shouting comes from the foyer as numerous other guys appear, looking around, evaluating my space, and touching my stuff.
Hayden has already made himself at home in the kitchen and calls, “Dinner is served, kids.”
Grady Federer, on defense, says, “I got the wings.”
“Tell me you brought the sauce.” Mikey pounces on the takeout bag.
Liam Ellis, a legend and also on D, holds a massive Tupperware container. In a monotone, he says, “Jessica made cake and told me to tell you, and I quote, ‘Welcome to Cobbiton and the Knights. We’re thrilled to have you on the team and can’t wait for game night!’”
My brow furrows.
“She wants to know if you prefer The Settlers of Catan or El Dorado.” He shrugs. “She got really into hospitality. Fluffing the nest or whatever with board game night.”
Is that what this is?
While the Nebraska Knights make themselves comfortable and dish up—they also brought chili cornbread salad, an antipasto platter, lil smokies, seven-layer dip, Greek meatballs, and more—I stand in their midst slack-jawed.
I only know this because Pierre Arsenault claps me on the shoulder so hard my teeth rattle.
Vohn Brandt, the Knights’s assistant coach, known in the hockey world as being a dismal storm cloud, says, “You get used to it.”
“You do?” Liam asks, apparently another grump.
To be clear, I don’t fall into that category. Neither am I Mr. Sunshine. It’s just that I’m not a revolving door kind of guy. My house is my retreat to recharge. When I’m not here, I crank up the energy. Otherwise, I want my oasis to myself.
“At least we beat Mrs. Simmons to the punch,” Mikey says, giving the air an uppercut.
“She’d totally crush a cage fight,” Pierre says.
“Do you mean Marsha Simmons?” I ask, vaguely remembering the older woman inviting my brother and me over for Thanksgiving when Mom extended her stay in Vegas for a week, leaving us alone for the holiday.
Redd says, “What are you dopes talking about? Mrs. Simmons makes the best casseroles.”
