Page 12 of Slapshot
I suppress a groan. Yeah, just what I want—a chick sleeping with me out of pity or because I play hockey. That’s not to say I don’t enjoy the attention that comes with being a part of Moo U’s hockey team, but every time a girl approaches me with the team it’s clear she wants to hook up with my jersey and not me. Being interchangeable isn’t something I’m into.
We don’t need to share our life history but knowing my name—so I can make her scream it—is necessary.
“Yo, yo,” Ash says in a hushed tone looking toward the door. We all follow his gaze to the doorway where Kaitlyn stands with another girl I’ve never seen before. Every head in the place turns to look at them.
They’re both stunning, but my attention is quickly drawn back to Kaitlyn. She looks uncomfortable for a moment as she glances around the bar. When she spots our table, her shoulders straighten.
She’s changed clothes from the black pants and green polo uniform to a short dress. Her hair is down. The light-brown locks fall past her shoulders.
The two girls head toward a table across the restaurant. Still, I keep watching. Kaitlyn unwraps a long, green scarf from around her neck and shrugs out of her coat.
I stopped listening to the guys at some point, but Ash gets my attention as he pushes back on his barstool. “I’m going over to talk to her, invite her to sit with us.”
Pax puts a hand on his shoulder. “If she wanted to talk to us, I think she would have done that sometime during the past three hours she was around us.”
“Did the ice queen talk to anyone?” Patrick asks.
Everyone’s quiet for a beat.
“I walked by the equipment room to see if she could repair my pad, but she shot me a death glare and I decided I didn’t really need it fixed,” someone says. That earns some laughs.
“I talked to her,” I say finally.
They all look to me.
“I asked her to re-sharpen my skates tonight so I could practice tomorrow.”
A deep groan that I’m pretty sure comes from Patrick—it’s his primary mode of conversation when talking to me—is followed by Ash’s great idea. “You should go over and talk to her then, Vonne.”
“No.” I quickly dismiss the idea. “What would I even say?”
“Come on,” Jonah pushes. “Someone should at least go say hello now that we’re all staring at her. It’s going to be a long season if our manager isn’t doing her job.”
Patrick wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “I normally wouldn’t recommend breaking the ice with a girl by chatting hockey, but this might be the one instance in which your obsession with talking hockey at the bar comes in handy. Reel her in, Vonne.”
“She’s not a fish.”
“Nah, but she’s fucking cold-blooded from what I hear, and we need her on our side.”
She didn’t really come off that way to me. I don’t mind hard, difficult things though. Might even say I prefer them.
Kirk laughs. “He couldn’t get a girl like Kaitlyn Dalager. She’s way out of his league.”
Frustration burns. Asshole dares don’t normally push me into action, but I’m tired of being underestimated. I can play with these guys and I can damn well get a girl like Kaitlyn if I wanted.
Pushing back from the table, I stand and take my beer with me. Something to do with my hands. I can hear the guys chuckling behind me. Patrick yells for me to give her a wide berth.
Aware they are watching my every move, I slow my pace and consider what I’m going to say. Unfortunately, I don’t come up with anything before I get there.
Her friend spots me first. I smile and her red lips fall into a frown. Awesome, another fan.
I consider doing a drive-by and circling back to the boys. Pretend I’m lost or going to talk to someone else, anyone else. That’d probably be a smarter choice, but I’m feeling just dumb enough that instead I jut my chin in greeting and stop at the end of their table. “Hey there.”
It’s crickets. Her friend gives me a look that makes my balls want to climb inside my body and hide. I turn my focus on Kaitlyn and offer her a big smile that she does not return.
“Hi?” She says it slowly like it’s a question and looks around. “Are you lost?”
“I don’t think so.” I sit beside her. She’s in the middle of the booth, so I’m closer than would be considered casual. Something floral hits my nose and our arms brush. She doesn’t scoot over to make room for me, and I sort of dig the way she holds her ground. Most people would move over to be polite, even if I’m the one being rude by sitting. Not Kaitlyn.
