Page 21 of Lucky Shot
“Ignore him,” Nick says to me. “Everyone else does.”
“I’m wounded,” Travis fires back with a playfulness that even eases the lines on Nick’s face.
I think I like him too.
“We should grab a drink sometime and commiserate over his moodiness,” Travis says.
I have no idea how to respond and can’t tell if he’s hitting on me or joking around. Something tells me both.
“Thanks, but I’m heading out of town today.”
“Bummer,” he says.
“Okay.” Nick motions with his hand for Travis like he’s shooing him away. “Don’t you have a camp to run? Children to corrupt?”
Travis skates backward. “Nice to meet you, Ruby.”
“Thanks. You too.”
Before he turns, Travis says to his friend, “Much better than the wanted ad.”
Nick sighs and says some things under his breath. I only catch the words "pain in my ass” and I genuinely have no idea if he means me or Travis.
“Wanted ad?” I ask.
His mouth falls in a straight line as his dark green eyes lock on me. “I appreciate that my dad put you in a weird position too, but I’m coaching this camp all week.”
“Right.” I stare out at the adorable kids, then up to where the parents are seated. And then it hits me, I am at a hockey camp. This is literally where kids come to learn hockey.
I have been so caught up in doing my research a certain way, but this could work. And bonus points for avoiding the grumpy, hockey player. Or mostly avoiding him. He can’t glare directly at me while teaching them, right?
“Well, thanks anyway,” I say when what I really mean is thanks for nothing.
I tighten my hold on my backpack and start toward the stairs.
“Where are you going?” Nick calls after me.
“To learn hockey.”
He’s back to glowering. “I just said?—”
“I know. You’re busy. Got it. Don’t worry. I won’t ask you a thing. I’ll just sit quietly and observe with the other spectators. Maybe I’ll pick it up by osmosis. I mean, how hard could it be?”
7
RUBY
I do not learn hockey by osmosis. At least not in the first hour.
Idoturn into an ice block. It is so freaking cold in here. My arms and legs are covered in goosebumps. It’s not the first time I’ve suffered for my art, and certainly won’t be the last.
I’m seated a few rows up, off to the side of a group of moms. I thought maybe they’d chat hockey things that might be helpful in my research. Instead, they’ve spent most of the sixty minutes or so I’ve been sitting here talking about their kids’ many summer activities. Outside of hockey camp, there’s swim team, dance class, soccer, piano, karate – these moms are navigating CEO-level schedules. I’m exhausted for them – the momsandthe kids.
One woman sits by herself on my other side with a book in her lap. She glances up occasionally to watch her child, then goes right back to reading. Some dads are here too. They’re more intent on the action down on the ice. They call out things like “Move your feet, Billy!” and “Two hands on the stick,” and “Shoot!” and the most confusing of all “Where’s the D?” I’m not sure who or what ‘D’ is but one particular man is very adamant that his kid, Henry, find it.
I’ve been scribbling things into a notebook but most of it is nonsense. This was perhaps not my best laid plan. Maybe I should start with some basic edits, like changing the word baseball to hockey in all one hundred and seventy-three instances in the manuscript.
As I reach for my laptop, I glance down at the ice. Nick glides across the rink, smooth and almost graceful. He comes to a stop in front of a little girl with hair redder than mine sticking out around her helmet. She’s standing next to the wall, inching around the perimeter, clutching on to a bright yellow walker-looking device that some of the kids are using to keep them upright.
