Page 39 of Lucky Shot
“Most evenings I’m busy with Aidan.”
“I get it,” I say, realizing he’s letting me down easy. He might even feel bad about it.
“We could come to the rink earlier tomorrow. He’ll never turn down some extra ice time.”
Earlier. Yikes.
“Whatever works for you. As long as I have coffee, I’ll be fine.”
He chuckles. A deep, rich sound that I feel deep down in the pit of my stomach. His dimples are on full display and dear lord, the man is doing the world a favor by being so grumpy all the time. Women would be lining up around the block if he flashed that smile around all day long.
“Does the cabin have a coffee pot?” he asks, then looks contemplative like he’s trying to remember.
“I didn’t see one, but I don’t mind buying one. I need to get some groceries anyway.”
He leans on a hockey stick, casually, staring at me with a hint of that killer smile still lingering on his face. I wonder how the heck he stays upright so easily out there on the ice. Then I remember I can ask.
“When did you start skating?”
His body language switches immediately, as if he just remembered this is an interview and I broke our rule of no personal questions. He really seems to have an issue with answering questions about himself, and I can’t help but wonder why.
“This isn’t for the book. I’m just curious. You look so comfortable out there.”
“I was four,” he says finally.
“Were you good at it right away?” I bet he was.
“I don’t really remember, but I’ve been doing it so long it feels as easy as walking or riding a bike.”
I don’t point out that those things aren’t easy for everyone.
“Morning, everyone,” the woman coach from yesterday skates in the middle of the rink. “We’re going to start in two minutes so get your gear on. We’re starting on the ice today.”
Nick looks to me as if prompting me to ask whatever I can in the short time we have left.
“Okay.” I look at my notebook. “Can you tell me what a week during the season looks like for you?”
“It varies by team and coaching preferences, but I get to the rink around nine and I’m here until one or two o’clock in the afternoon.”
“And is it all…” I wave my hand around. “Skating around with a puck?”
His lips twitch with a smile. “No.”
“Walk me through a day.” I find I’m curious to know more about him and not strictly for the book.
“I eat breakfast, then meetings, work out, get on the ice for drills or scrimmaging, then recovery—ice bath, red light therapy, a massage, something like that, then I head home to pick up Aidan from school.” While he speaks, he moves back and forth – pacing on the ice. His stick moves in front of him, guiding a puck effortlessly. It’s kind of distracting and a lot hot. Who knew hockey players were so sexy. Maybe my publisher was onto something.
“Meetings?” I try and fail to picture him in a stuffy boardroom.
“We’ll watch video from the last game or scope out the next team.”
“Research.”
“Exactly.”
I scribble down his words as I ask a few more follow-up questions about his daily routine. His answers are short and concise, but I never feel like he’s holding back – more that he takes for granted how ingrained he is in the sport. The more he talks, the more things I realize I don’t know, and when camp starts, I fight back a tinge of disappointment.
I close my notebook and slide my pen in the spiral binding.
