Page 26 of Lucky Shot
“Sure. Great pitcher.”
“He is,” I say proudly. “And great guy too.”
I send the picture to my sister and then tuck my phone back into my purse.
When Annie returns, Nick orders a cheeseburger and fries.
“Same for me,” I say.
He leans back in the booth when she’s gone. “Are you a baseball fan then?”
“I’m not sure I can answer that since we have a no personal questions rule in place.”
The dry look he gives me is so on par for him that it pulls a laugh from me.
“My grandfather works for the Mustangs, and Flynn plays so I sort of have to be, but otherwise, not really. I’m not very sporty.”
His right dimple appears as he flashes a half smile at me. It is…dazzling. Good thing he doesn’t smile more because sweet baby rhinos it’s a good look for him.
“You’re not sporty and you don’t know hockey. Why did you decide to write a book about hockey?”
At the mention of my job, I reach for my notebook and pen to jot down any notes because that’s what I’m doing here, not being dazzled because the grumpy hockey player has the ability to smile. “I didn’t. My publisher requested it.”
“They can do that?”
“They can when the author is desperate to publish another book,” I admit.
He gives me a pitying look and I think I may have said too much.
“Anyway.” I flip open my notebook. “You were going to walk me through a hockey game.”
His face scrunches up, pained. “Yeah, I thought about that. I can do that, if you want, but it might be easier to cover the rules and objectives. Then I can go over a few of the standard plays we run.”
“That would be great.” I fight the blush heating my cheeks. He’s being so amenable. Maybe he was just hangry. Though the food hasn’t arrived yet so I’m not sure that logic works.
For the next half hour, Nick talks hockey. I scribble furiously as I write down everything he says, nearly word for word. Halfof it doesn’t make sense to me, and his answers to my follow-up questions don’t provide a lot of clarity.
Annie brought our food somewhere between his explanation of the different positions and rules of the game, but mine still sits untouched.
“Okay, let me see if I can summarize.” I pop a fry in my mouth and chew as I review my notes. Once I’m finished chewing, I say, “The game starts with a face-off at half-court.”
“Center ice,” he corrects.
“Right. That’s what I meant.”
The corner of his mouth twitches, revealing one of his dimples again.
“The disc is called a puck, and players try to shoot it into the other team’s goal.” Not basket. He already corrected me on that.
“Simple, right?”
I stifle a laugh. If that’s all there was to it, then sure. “I still don’t understand the rules or job of each player, but I’m not sure I need that level of detail for my book.”
“Well what position does he play?”
“Hewasa shortstop. Any chance you have one of those in hockey?”
Nick blanches. Guess not.
