Page 42 of Lucky Shot
“The heroine is in the stands, and he wants to impress her,” I say, setting the scene. “Does that happen? Do you invite women and then try to impress them with your hockey skills?”
“No,” he says quickly as if the thought is absolutely ludicrous.
“Never?”
He pauses as if considering it, but only for a second. “Maybe in high school or early in my juniors’ career.”
I want to pick at that but keep myself in the professional zone. “Okay, well, what’s the most impressive thing you’ve done during a game?”
He grins but doesn’t answer immediately.
“Was it a hat trick or a slick deke move against a defender.” I don’t even know what I’m saying. I’ve read just enough hockey stuff over the past day to use a few terms, probably not the right way.
“Fans tend to be more impressed by goals than anything else, so I would go that route,” he says.
“Okay. Great. What does that look like? Play-by-play.”
He chuckles softly. “Usually people are critiquing my game, not asking for my interpretation of it.”
I smile back at him, waiting. He takes a moment to collect himself, then gives me the play like he’s a sportscaster. Hisface is more animated than I’ve seen it, and those dimples are continually on display.
I write it down word-for-word, pen moving fast over the paper. I feel giddy, like I was there for it. And I can’t stop smiling at him.
“And no girls were impressed?” I ask, disbelieving. I’m impressed now just hearing it. Sure, I don’t really know that much about hockey, but I could feel the passion of it. There’s no way the fans in the crowd didn’t feel it too.
“Maybe, but I don’t see a lot beyond what’s happening on the ice. The fans and the lights, the music…it all becomes background noise.”
“I guess that makes sense.” I chew on the end of my pen as I think. “What about a time when you screwed up?”
“How badly are we talking?” he asks, then adds, “Mistakes happen all the time. Missed shots or passes, penalties at the wrong time that shift momentum. Most of the time, I push past it and keep going. Lingering on it can cause cascading effects.”
I nod. “Something bad enough that you couldn’t shake it off.”
I want to know for the book, but I also want to know because it’s him and I find him fascinating.
“Last season during our final game, I had a breakaway in the first minute of play. Defenders were too far back to stop me. I flew down the ice. Just me and the goalie, this young kid, his first playoff appearance. I knew the pressure he was feeling. I remember what it was like, nothing really prepares you for it.”
I nod along like I know. Maybe it’s like publishing your first book – that all-consuming fear and excitement. Everything feels like unlimited possibilities…and countless ways things could go wrong.
“What happened?” I ask, literally and figuratively on the edge of my seat. Adrenaline courses through me as I wait for him to finish the story.
“I had him. He was freaking out, watching me so intently, but a second behind my every move. I faked left and then went right…” He pauses, leaving me hanging for several long seconds as a bashful look crosses his face. “A wide-open look and I rung the pipe.”
“You missed?” I ask, genuinely surprised even though I knew this story was leading in that direction.
“Yep.” He shakes his head. “I was so certain I had him. I took my eye off the goal and…missed.”
I feel the embarrassment of the moment or at least the embarrassment I would feel. An entire stadium of fans watching you mess up. At least for me I can generally hide behind my keyboard. Every typo or poorly executed plot point is discovered miles away from me.
“How do you recover after something like that?” I ask because something tells me he doesn’t follow my method of eating ice cream and binge-watching reality television.
“There isn’t a lot of time to dwell on it in the moment. It’s usually after the game when I rehash it and think about what could have been.” He takes the last bite of his sandwich and then sits back in his chair. When he’s finished chewing, he asks, “Anything else before I head back out there?”
I’m still lost in his story, imagining how I can tweak it for the character in my book. Originally, I told it from the heroine’s point of view, but maybe I should do it from his. “No, I think this is good for now.”
I gather up my stuff and he throws away the trash.
“Can I read it when you’re done?” he asks as we head for the door.
