Page 18 of Lucky Shot
By the time we take our first break, nerves have turned to excitement and an eagerness for more. While they snack, they sit on the benches, the lights dim, and the Jumbotron plays a flashy, pump-up video they run at the beginning of every home game.
Travis and I stand off the ice, taking our own quick breather.
“Pretty good group this year,” he says.
I nod, loving how good it feels to be here. When everything else in life has felt hard or uncertain, hockey has always been there. I want to give these kids that same feeling.
“Aidan has improved a lot since I last saw him.”
“Yeah. He’s been working hard since he moved up to play with the older kids.”
“That’s great. Is he going to…” Travis’s words trail off, or at least I don’t hear them, as a flash of red catches my eye.
The hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention and my body tenses as Ruby Madison stands ten feet away in a yellow dress with little straps that are tied in bows at her shoulders. Her hair is in a braid that hangs down her back and she has her backpack looped over one arm.
“No,” I say and I’m not sure what I’m answering. No, I am not noticing how hot she is—thanks a lot, Trav. No, I don’t want her here. No, I am not going to walk over and repeat myself that I don’t want to be interviewed. Surely, she’s pieced it together by now that I’m her contact.
“Holy Hot Mom,” Travis says when he catches sight of the object of my attention.
I glare, though not directly at him, because I don’t want to look away from Ruby.
“She’s not a mom,” I say, “or at least not a mom of one of these kids.”
I do finally look at him. His brows furrow and then ever so slowly I watch understanding dawn on his face.
“Nicholas Michael Galaxy,” he says, voice filled with humor. “You dirty, fucking liar.”
6
RUBY
Nick Galaxy. Six feet, two inches tall. Thirty-one years old. Captain of the Montana Moonshot. Wears jersey number thirteen. Previously played for Chicago and then, most recently, the Wildcats. Last season he led the Moonshot in…some stats that I can’t remember but sounded very impressive.
I spent the morning looking him up, arming myself with information and preparing to face him again. I was prepared, in theory, but my memory had dulled the sharp edges of his personality. You know how some people walk around like they don’t have a care in the world? Nick is the opposite. It seems like everything bothers him. Mostly, me.
His dark hair is messy, like he’s been running his fingers through it or perhaps playing hockey. Don’t they usually wear helmets? And pads? Maybe they only wear those sometimes, like when they’re going to fight it out, WrestleMania style.
He’s in black athletic pants eerily similar to the ones he had on yesterday and a light purple Moonshot Hockey T-shirt.
I’m taking all this in as he skates toward me. He looks good and he looks…irritated at my presence. He knew last night thathewas my contact as I babbled on about meeting a hockeyexpert at the rink today. I was certain of that even before Mike came over this morning to apologize and tell me Nick needed a few days to come around to the idea.
As a fellow optimist, I appreciate his sunny outlook, but I can’t afford to wait and see. So, here I am. I couldn’t sit around and do nothing. I couldn’t not try. I need him. I don’t relish the idea of begging, but I’m not above it either.
I had not predicted the rink to be filled with children when I got in my lime green MINI Cooper and drove over, but it’s too late to go back now. Nick’s already seen me.
“Hi.” I lift a hand in a wave as he gets closer.
His mouth moves in what I think might be an attempted polite sort of smile before he says, “What are you doing here?”
“Okay, right to it.” No“Hello, Ruby. Good to see you. Sorry I was a jackass yesterday.”
Man, he’s grumpy. It must be exhausting. All that stomping and jaw clenching.
“Didn’t my dad give you the message?” A muscle in his cheek flexes and one dimple appears. It’s so disorienting that I don’t respond quickly enough, and Nick adds, “I can’t help you. I’m sorry.”
He doesn’t sound sorry.
I break out of my dimple-induced haze as it disappears. The one in his jaw remains, though less visible today since he still hasn’t shaved.
