Page 50 of Thrown for a Loop
I look up into his blue eyes, and I’m transported back a decade. For a split second it’s just the two of us again, red-cheeked and happy, oblivious to the rest of the world.
The sound of applause brings me back to earth, though. I straighten up just as Chase does the same.
“Isn’t she great?” Steve Sailor is crowing. “Coach Carson will take your questions in a moment.”
Dismissed, Chase skates toward the bench, and I hurry to follow him. His agent is waiting there with his shoes. “Nice show you two put on,” Bess says. “But please tell me you figured out exactly what he needs.”
“Since you mentioned it…”
Chase groans quietly as he steps off the ice and onto the rubber mats.
“I want him to see a chiropractor immediately.”
“Huh,” Bess says. “I’ll find him someone. But why?”
“Zoe has a stupid theory,” Chase mutters, taking his shoes from Bess.
“It’s not stupid,” I argue. “It’s merely improbable. But…”
My gaze falls on the shoes, and I lose my train of thought. They’re a beat-up pair of the same classic Adidas Sambas that Chase always favored—white with black stripes. He’s a rich man now. It’s interesting to see that he still wears his shoes out before he buys a new pair.
Interesting, and possibly important. “Let me see those?” I say. But then I’m so impatient that I don’t wait for an answer. I lean forward and grab the shoes out of his hands.
“Sniff those at your own risk,” Bess says. “Hockey players have stinky feet. I know because I married one.”
But I’m not listening. I’m too busy turning them over to study the soles. And as soon as I get a look, I let out a sound of disbelief. The right outer sole is seriously worn down. And the left one isn’t. “Look. See that? Now do you believe me?”
Chase grabs the shoe out of my hands and stares at it. “Shit.”
“Hey,” Bess says. “What’s causing that?”
“Ask the chiropractor,” I insist. “But Ithinkhe may have dislocated his pelvis and made his gait uneven.” I pull one of my new business cards out of my pocket and thrust it at Bess. “Let me know if I’m right.”
She takes the card and clutches it to her chest. “Honey, I’ll buy you a bottle of expensive champagne if you’re right. Chase, did you smile pretty for the cameras?”
He isn’t listening, though. He’s still staring at his shoe. Then he lifts his gaze and gives me a long, thoughtful look that makes my face flush.
“If I’m right,” I chirp, “then you might have to stop hating me.”
His expression shutters immediately, and Bess just looks baffled.
Oops. I just made it awkward again.
“Coach Carson?” calls the publicist from across the ice.
“I’ve got to…” I say, pointing over my shoulder.
“Go,” Bess says. “We’ll follow up later.”
I turn and skate back toward the journalists, and toward Steve Sailor, who looks impatient. “Zoe can take your questions at this time,” he says.
Several hands shoot up, and so does my blood pressure.
Sailor calls on “Marco from ESPN.”
“How do hockey players feel about taking tips from a tiny woman?” the guy asks.
I suppose that question was inevitable. “A couple things,” I say, wondering how much the PR guy is going to hate my answer. “Iseem to be drawn to jobs where people feel compelled to talk about my height and weight…”
