Page 30 of Must Love Hockey
I’m probably beaming as he leads me quickly through a door marked DRESSING ROOM.
And—holy crap—the label is not wrong. I try not to stare as we cross the room amid half-naked players and a whole lot of sports reporters. And oh my God, there’s Anton Bayer’s bare bottom! There’s a tattoo of the Brooklyn Bridge on it!
I force my eyes to look away as we cross through to the outer chamber where the coat lockers are. I was here the night of my allergic reaction. James shows me to a wooden bench. “Hang here for a few? I have to carry a few things to the van.”
“Can I be of any help?” I ask.
His smile is amused. “No, sweetheart. But thanks for asking.” Then? He leans right down and kisses my cheek, before walking quickly out of the room.
I just stare after him, his muscular ass a sight in faded jeans. And I think I might be drooling a little.
Keep it together, Chen, I coach myself.He’s just a guy.
But what a guy. Big and strong. Polite. And so handsome that I get a little stupid when we’re in the same room together. If he actually kisses me tonight, I might stroke out.
Sitting here and waiting for him is less boring than you’d think. The people-watching is spectacular. Players filter through in ones and twos, opening their lockers to retrieve their suit jackets and coats. “Coming to the Tavern?” Castro asks Drake.
“Sure, man. Uber or walk?”
“Uber.”
I wonder if Uber drivers get starstruck when they pick up hockey players outside the stadium. I’m willing to bet they do.
Wilson comes out and dons his coat. It probably takes a whole herd of sheep to make a topcoat that wide. Then he notices me sitting here. “Hey, it’s Emily!”
My face heats. Wilson remembers myname? “Hi. Thanks again for your help that night last fall.”
“No problem.” I expect him to walk right by me, but he sits down on the bench. “You doing okay? Any more reactions?”
“I’ve been fine,” I tell him. “No more reactions. But changing my diet was a big adjustment.”
“Meat, huh?” he asks with a shake of his head. “I can’t imagine. There’s only so much chicken and fish a guy can eat.”
“It’s okay,” I insist. “I never ate that much meat anyway. But it…” I wonder if he really wants to hear this, or if he’s just being polite. “I’m constantly nervous about triggering it again. It’s made eating into a scary adventure that I never wanted to have.” I laugh, like this is funny. But it comes out sounding a little hysterical.
“Hey.” He puts a hand on my arm. “I’m sorry to hear that. Some people get real bad PTSD about this.”
“It’s notthatbad,” I say quickly.
He lifts his giant eyebrows. “Does it interfere with you eating? Have you lost weight?”
I shake my head slowly. “I’m eating. I just don’t, uh, enjoy it much anymore.”
“That’s a shame, girl. You have your own epi now?”
“Oh, of course,” I concede. “I take it everywhere I go.”
“Good,” he says. “The thing is? That stuffworks. I know you’re spooked. I know you don’t want to feel those symptoms again. But you’re going to be all right. Really. Live large and carry epi, okay?”
“Okay,” I say as his eyes crinkle with a smile.
He stands up. “Coming to the Tavern with us?”
“Think so.”
He lifts his big paw, and it takes me a second to figure out that I’m supposed to high five him. And I do.
“See ya there, Emily. Jimbo will be psyched, you know. He’s been workin’ it pretty hard, yeah?”
