Page 18 of Play Along With Me
I stare at the note, then at the ticket.
"Well?" Marcus prompts. "Is it a declaration of undying love? A request to join his cult? The deed to a timeshare in Boca Raton?"
"It's a ticket to a hockey game," I say slowly. "Apparently, I need to give my 'final opinion' on a player. Like I'm some kind of hockey talent scout now."
"Wait," Marcus pauses, brow furrowed. "Is this about that guy you were talking to the other night? The tall one with the serious face who kept looking at you when he thought no one would notice?"
"He wasn't looking at me," I protest automatically.
"Honey, I've been bartending for eight years. I know when someone's checking someone out. He was definitely looking at you."
I feel a weird flutter in my stomach that I choose to attribute to hunger rather than anything to do with Jake Marshall.
"Well, apparently I'm going to my first hockey game on Tuesday," I say, tucking the ticket back into the envelope.
"Wear something cute," Marcus advises. "Hockey players have a thing for women in their jerseys. It's like catnip to them."
"I'm not wearing a jersey," I say firmly. "I'm going as a professional observer, not a groupie."
"Sure you are," Marcus says with a knowing smile. "Just a completely neutral party who happens to be observing a specific player that she's already met twice."
"Whose side are you on?" I demand.
"The side of workplace entertainment," he replies cheerfully. "This is the most interesting thing to happen during a shift since that guy proposed using maraschino cherries to spell out 'Marry Me' and his girlfriend was allergic to red dye."
"That was pretty epic," I concede, remembering the ambulance and the tearful apologies.
"And now we have Audrey Goes to a Hockey Game: The Movie," Marcus continues. "Starring the surly bartender and the mysterious goalie with the heavy knock."
"I hate you," I inform him, but there's no heat behind it.
"You love me," he corrects. "Now help me make seven espresso martinis for the bachelorette party before they start singing 'I Will Survive' again."
I tuck the envelope into my back pocket and return to work, but my mind keeps drifting to Tuesday night. Me, at a hockey game. Watching Jake Marshall, professional goalie and door-pounder extraordinaire.
What exactly am I supposed to be forming an opinion about? His hockey skills? His "temperament," whatever that means in hockey terms? The way he fills out his uniform?
That last thought catches me off guard, and I nearly drop the cocktail shaker I'm holding.
Wow, Audrey. It's just a hockey game. Just a guy doing his job. Just a weird favor for Kevin, who tips well and keeps you entertained during slow shifts.
Definitely not a date. Not even close to a date. Just an anthropological expedition into the world of professional ice sports.
And if I happen to see my neighbor’s friend in his natural habitat? Well, that's just research for my character file.
Nothing more.
Chapter 4
The only sound in Warrior Ice Arena at 6:30 AM is the crisp slice of my skates cutting into fresh ice. The Saints' practice facility is eerily quiet this early—even the usual staff won't arrive for another hour. I had to slip the rink manager an extra fifty to let me in before dawn, but it's worth it.
Six days until Tuesday. Six days until my shot.
I move through my progression of drills with methodical precision. T-pushes from post to post. Butterfly slides. Recovery drills. Over and over until sweat soaks through my practice jersey despite the cold.
My breath creates small clouds in the air as I push myself through one more repetition, then another. My muscles protest, but I ignore them. NHL shooters won't care if I'm tired. They'll find any weakness and exploit it mercilessly—that's their job.
By the time I finish, my legs feel like overcooked pasta, but my mind is sharp. I've been doing these extra solo sessions every morning this week, in addition to Providence's regular team practices and our game schedule. It's probably overkill, but I can't risk being anything less than perfect on Tuesday.
