Page 68 of Lucky Shot
“We’re more alike than I thought.”
She lets out a soft laugh.
“What’s the deal with your necklace?”
“The deal?” She lifts a hand to it and smirks.
“You know what I mean. You always wear it. It must be important to you.”
“My sister gave it to me a long time ago and I found it while packing up my apartment. Four-leaf clovers are lucky, and I need all the luck I can get right now.” She scrunches up her nose. “That probably sounds silly. I’m not usually so superstitious.”
“Nah, everyone can use a little luck, now and again. I know guys who wear the same socks during the playoffs or follow the exact pregame routine down to the smallest detail.”
“Do you have a lucky charm?”
“I have a routine, but no one thing I rely on like your necklace.”
“Maybe you need one,” she says playfully. “Though I’m not sure yet mine is working.”
“Maybe.” I pull the skate off and set it on the ground.
“Oh, god that feels good.” She moans and scrunches up her socked toes. My thumb slides into the arch and rubs softly. She lets out another contented sigh that has my blood warming.
“I changed my mind. Keep doing that and I’ll sleep on the sweaty pads.”
My chest feels tight as I give her foot one last squeeze. Our gazes lock and the air feels thicker around us. She pulls her legoff my thigh. I glance to her other skate, a silent question, but she flushes and looks away. “I got it.”
I nod, then stand and head back onto the ice to pick up the pucks. I need to get a hold of myself. Jesus. I’m blaming the pink panties for my brain and body being on high alert over touching her foot. What. The. Fuck?
17
RUBY
I am a badass hockey player. I eat professional hockey players for breakfast. I am a mean, lean, puck-scoring machine.
I tilt my head back to see out of the helmet. It’s fallen down into my eyes again. Nick smirks back, almost like he can read the internal pep talk I’m giving myself.
We’re back at the rink today. Camp is over and Aidan is visiting his mom this week, so I’ve got the grumpy hockey player to myself this morning. I couldn’t wait to get back and try again, despite the ache of my body…everywhere.
I stand in front of him in skates and pads (and the most unflattering helmet ever). I probably look ridiculous, but I don’t care.
“Show me the deke again,” I say, voice echoing in the rafters.
He backs up (why is skating backward so hot?!), grinning in a way that has my heart fluttering. There’s not even a hint of the grumpy man I first met.
“I’m not usually faking out people using a skating aid.”
I stick my tongue out at him. My butt cannot take another fall. Neither can my pride.
“Don’t get cocky, Galaxy. I’m going to stop this one.”
He doesn’t even bother smack-talking back. We both know the only way I’m stopping the puck from going into the goal behind me is if he lets me.
With the stick in his right hand, he pushes off his left skate. Leaning forward, his other hand wraps around the stick and he moves toward me with the puck. He shifts his weight from side to side. I’m enthralled and my pulse speeds up as he gets closer. I know it’s coming, but when he fakes left and snaps the puck to the right and easily shoots it past me, I’m still impressed.
“I almost had it,” I say, turning to the goal. With one hand on the skating aid, I use the other to fish the puck out with my stick. “Don’t defenders know it’s coming?”
“Players have tells and we all have our go-to moves, but at any given moment a guy might go left or right or take a shot. A good hockey player reads the defense and adjusts.”
