Page 68 of Brooklynaire
At the sound of my voice, Nate turns slowly in his seat. I feel a jolt when our eyes meet, and I’m probably not very good at hiding it. But Nate only gives me a curious eyebrowlift.
My belly tightens in a way that is absolutely not from desire. Nope. Not goingthere.
“Don’t you start,” I say to Nate and to myself, too. “It’s not that late and I can’t sleep if the game’s on.” I’m babbling, and it’s hard to stop, because I’m completely unprepared for my own reaction to Nate. I have the weirdest urge to vault over the half dozen people between us and kiss that little frown off hisface.
What’s happened tome?
Nate isn’t struggling, though. His face impassive, he turns around again, his focus back on theice.
Okay,ouch.
I swivel to find my best friend staring at me, an appraising look on her sweet face. So naturally I grab the wine glass out of her hand and sip fromit.
“I thought you weren’t supposedto…”
“Shh!” I silence her. “It’s one sip. Don’t alert my jailer.”Boss. Lover.Whatever. I am the most confused person inBrooklyn.
And now the most sexuallyfrustrated.
Georgia fetches me a soda and then fixes me with another stare. “How’s it going, anyway? I haven’t heard much from you since the party in Bal Harbour. Are you still staying atNate’s?”
“Nope.” I take a deep drink of the soda, avoiding her eyes. “Back in my ownapartment.”
“Okay…” Georgia waits for more information, but good luck with that. We cannot discuss my twisted sex life in this of all rooms, with Nate’s parents sitting a dozen feetaway.
Not to mentionNate.
I am spared further grilling because Tampa chooses that moment to strip the puck away from Trevi and turn it toward Brooklyn’s defensivezone.
“Baby, no!” Georgiayells.
Everyone in the box leans forward as Tampa rushes thenet.
They fire on Beacon, who deflects the shot off his stick. But the rebound is tight, and he has to dive for a secondone.
We all hold our collective breath while Brooklyn tries to clear it. Tampa takes aim again and two players charge the net. When the winger shoots, Beacon slaps another puckaway.
But then the other opponent plows right into ourgoalie.
“Oh, Jesus,” Nate says, in a show of emotion that’s rare for him. “Don’t you dare starta…”
He doesn’t even get the words out before Beacon throws off his gloves and lunges for the other dude. Lauren yelps and everyone in the box stands up, anxious about theoutcome.
If our goalie got injured in a fight, that would be adisaster.
It’s a scrum down there. Their guy has Beacon’s jersey in one hand and is punching him with the other. Beacon retaliates, and one punch launches his opponent’s face mask across the ice. They are a blur of flying fists, until the other guy goes down, pulling Beacon down,too.
I feel a sick little twinge, because it’s all too easy to picture Beacon’s head hitting the ice, and the months of recovery time that will ensue. From now on I won’t be able to see a player go down without anticipatingdisaster.
The ref and the linesman rush in to separate them. But Beacon is okay. He gets up quickly. There’s blood on his face, but fire in his eyes. And when the trainer runs out on the ice to evaluate him, Beacon waves himoff.
We all heave a collective sigh of relief. There are less than four minutes left in the period, and play resumes a moment later. The next three minutes feel very long, while we all watch Beacon for signs oftrouble.
There aren’t any, though. Instead, play moves to the other side of the rink and with only thirty seconds on the clock, Leo Trevi gets his stick on the loose puck and somehow slips it behind thegoalie.
Georgia lets out a shriek of joy as the lamp lights up behind Tampa’skeeper.
The score is 2-1 in our favor, and a wave of optimism rolls through the box as the period comes to itsend.
