Page 96 of Brooklynaire
22
Rebecca
Another day,another redcarpet.
From the bus window, I watch the players file off the vehicle to applause. I’m sure it’s less applause than the Detroit team received on their way into the stadium, since game seven will be held tonight on their home turf. But the hockey fans are out in force, since this game will decide who goes on to play for the Cup in round four. Regardless, there is a sizable crowd cheering as my boys strut into the stadium in theirsuits.
“Oh my,” Heidi Jo sighs beside me. She says that a lot when the boys are wearing crisp shirts andties.
“Ready, ladies?” Hugh pauses in the aisle of thebus.
“Absolutely,” I tell myboss.
Always the gentleman, Hugh waits for Heidi Jo and me to exit the bus ahead of him. Unwilling to hold him up, I nudge Heidi Jo to her feet and then quickstep to the front of the bus. I thank the driver and then hopdown.
Unfortunately, the asphalt is a little further away than I anticipate, and I turn my ankle for a split second before catching myself on the grab bar. A bolt of pain slices up myleg.
Shit.
Even so, I step to the side andsmile.
“Oh, honey!” Heidi Jo says too loudly. “Are youokay?”
“Fine!” Nothing to seehere.
Hugh gives me a small frown. But there are people watching so he gives the crowd a wave. “Working lunch with the boys in thirty, right?” he asksme.
“Right.” My ankle throbs. “I’m going to call the caterer right now and make sure everything is a go. See youinside?”
He gives me a friendly salute and walks toward the doors, where the security staff sees himthrough.
I wait until the bus pulls away before putting any weight on my left foot. And then I take a tentative step. It’s…sore. But not that bad. I think I’lllive.
“Well?” Heidi Jo crosses her arms. “Is this because you’re shakytoday?”
“It’ll be fine. And I’mnotshaky.” But I am. It’s been a shaky day. Too much stress and too little sleep last night. I gave myself the worst hotel room—the one right near the elevator shafts—because the players need their Zs if they’re going to win game seven. I haven’t been to therapy in ten days, and I can feel my exhaustion affecting my balance. I feel squinty and tired. Not that I’ll admit it toanyone.
And if that weren’t enough trouble for one week, I also got my period yesterday. So I’ve spent the last forty-eight hours ducking into public bathrooms to pop ibuprofen and feed quarters into tamponmachines.
I swear to God I heard O’Doul complaining about a hangnail on the bus just now. A professionalathlete.
Standing here on the asphalt outside the arena, I dial the caterer. One thing you learn traveling the continent’s hockey destinations is that if you need to talk to someone, don’t call from the bowels of astadium.
Heidi Jo waits patiently while I review our food order. My faithfulshadow.
“Okay,” I say, chucking my Katt phone into my bag. “They’re en route, but hit traffic. They’ll be ten minutes late. Let’s go tell Jimbo so he can watch forthem.”
“Roger,” she says, as we stroll toward the door, me limping slightly. Now that all the fuss is over, the entrance is guarded by a single person. Although he’s the size of two people. His neck is thicker than my waist, Ithink.
I pull out my team ID and show it to him. Heidi Jo does thesame.
The human refrigerator frowns. “Players only beyond this point,” hesays.
That’s ridiculous, since our team credentials allow access anywhere. “If you’ll step aside I’ll show you that my card opens thedoor.”
He steps aside. I wave my card past the scanner and… Nothing happens. Shit. It’s been demagnetized in my bag. “HeidiJo?”
She lifts her card but Mr. Refrigerator moves to block her. “Sorry, miss. Players only beyond thispoint.”
