Page 9 of Must Love Hockey
I set it down. “What if you just told me about your job, instead? How did you end up as the Bruisers’ equipment manager?”
He shrugs, and his smile is so cute that I feel a little fluttery inside. That’s how I know my allergic reaction is truly over—I care more about the company I’m keeping than I do about my health scare.
“I’ve always loved hockey,” he tells me. “I used to play in a league at Chelsea Piers. Then I took a job there, because it got me a discount. So I was working at the rink—sharpening skates, driving the Zamboni…”
“You drive the Zamboni?” I squeak. There are probably hearts in my eyes right now.
“Not in Brooklyn,” he says quickly. “I mean—only in emergencies at the practice rink. Mostly, I handle all the players’ gear—I make sure their pads are clean and on the jet when we travel. I sharpen their skates however they like that done. I order the sticks and the tape.” He shrugs again. “Honestly, I applied for this job on a whim the spring before I graduated from high school. Was stunned to get called in for an interview. Even more stunned to be hired. That was almost four years ago now.”
“And now hockey is your livelihood! That is so amazing.”
“My father is less amazed than you are,” he says, tilting his handsome head back against the wall. “He says I’m wasting time on a job that has no future.”
“Seriously?” I make a sound of outrage. “What exactly does he want you todothat’s so damn important?”
He laughs uncomfortably. “Well, Dad’s an electrician. He has his own business, and he wanted me to join him. Still does. Every time I see him, he asks me when I’m going to be ready to get my license.”
I groan. “He and my mother should form a club. Hell—they’ve probably already had their membership cards made for the Tell Your Kid What To Do With His Life Club.”
“You, too, huh?” He gives me a lopsided smile that is practically irresistible. “What does your mom want you to be when you grow up?”
“I’m studying education. She wants me to get a business degree, just like my boyfriend did.”
He blinks. And maybe I’m tired enough to hallucinate, but I swear he looks a little bummed now. “Business,” he says flatly.
“Yeah. She thinks I’ll never pay off my student loans. But it’s not going to be that bad. I get financial aid, and I live at home to keep costs down.”
“You’re braver than me. I moved out of my parents’ house so I could stop listening to my dad complain about the future of his business without me. Also, I have three sisters, so…” He chuckles. “Was kind of looking forward to having my own bathroom anyway.”
“Three! I always wanted sisters. Or a brother. It’s been just my mom and me since I can remember.”
“I have a huge family,” James says. “Sometimes it’s great, but sometimes it’s a pain in the ass. I’m still surrounded by them, even if I don’t live at home. So my dad still gets his kicks in.”
“He’s crazy. And I’m not just saying that because I’m a hockey nut.”
He grins.
“Not everyone gets to spend every day immersed in something they really love. That’s really special, and I’m sorry he can’t see it.”
“Thank you,” he says softly. Our gazes are locked now, and his eyes are the color of melted chocolate. “I’m sorry, too. The way he built up his business is pretty impressive, you know? It’s just not what I want to do all day.”
“Then you shouldn’t,” I insist. “What’s it like traveling with the team?”
His grin widens. “It’s like summer camp with really good food. I’ve been to some great restaurants and some really nice hotels. I’ve watched over three hundred games standing two feet from the ice in every major league hockey stadium in North America. With the guys, I’ve gone skating on the river in Ottawa, and swimming in the Pacific Ocean.”
“Yeah, you really ought to quit that job,” I say with a smile.
“I know, right?”
“Can you tell me some gossip about the team?” I bat my eyelashes at him.
“No, ma’am.” He’s still smiling, but he shakes his head. “I don’t talk about them, because it wouldn’t be right.”
“I know! I was kidding.” I reach over and squeeze his arm. And, wow, it’s like squeezing iron. “Seriously. I wouldn’t want you to.”
“I mean, it’s tempting to tell you which player eats the same strawberry jam and peanut butter sandwich before every game. And which one still carries around his lucky jockstrap from high school…”
“Omigod!” I yelp. “Now I’m dying of curiosity. But not about the sandwich thing—I read that on Puck Rakers. It’s Castro.”
