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“You’re Lucky Wrenley, aren’t you?” she asks behind me.
Now I get the “You of all people” comment. I guess she’s making the assumption that a professional athlete wouldn’t squat in a house. I have no idea if that is true, but in my case, it sure as hell is.
I'm surprised she knows my name. She doesn't exactly strike me as a hockey fan. Especially since she scowled at me the minute I opened the door.
“Seven. My name is Seven. And how do you know who I am?”
I’ve always hated the nickname.
The media coined the term after my first season when I was signed to a team that had never won a Stanley Cup in over twenty years.
They were thought to be a cursed team.
I ended up starting as the goalie when our starter got hurt the game before the last game of the championship, and I didn’t let a single puck get past me that night. Maybe I had something to prove or maybe I just got “lucky” as most sports commentators suggested.
We won the Stanley Cup, and the name stuck, and I’ve resented it ever since.
You don’t become one of the longest-player goalies in NHL history out of pure luck. My stats speak for themselves. It’s not cocky. It’s the facts.
I don’t ask fans not to call me that, but she’s not a fan, and thank God for that.
"I live in Seattle. Your billboard-sized head is hard to miss."
Does she realize how many dirty jokes she just set me up for? Too bad the last thing I'm in the mood for is a joke at one in the morning with a random stranger who just tried to break into my house.
She mentioned that she has an editor and that she's from Seattle. If she turns out to be a sports journalist and this is all a ploy to get an exclusive interview, her ass is going back out to the porch.
Maybe Silas, my buddy who manages one of the hotels, has a room opening up tomorrow. Or maybe he knows of a vacant rental house somewhere around here that I can call the owner to get her into.
If Rita still has that open room above her bar available, I might be able to put her there.
Either way, tomorrow, the girl is gone.
Chapter Five
Brynn
I follow behind the large hockey player dressed in only his boxer briefs as he carries my luggage into the house and down the hall.
I should have known that this trip would turn out like this. I should have listened to my gut and canceled. This is exactly why I don’t put myself out there.
I keep myself safe by staying within my limits and within the boundaries of safety. Now I’m stuck in a country I don’t know, with a storm that could possibly hit my exact location, and even worse than all of that, my accommodations are anything but certain.
Tonight, I have a roof over my head, and at the very least, I assume that the starting goalie for the Hawkeyes isn’t an axe murderer.
I feel bad that I got his name wrong. I could have sworn that I’ve heard the sports broadcasters call him Lucky during the few games I’ve seen.
“But doesn’t everyone call you Lucky?” I ask.
I hear him groan with annoyance, and now I wish I had just let it go.
Who cares what he wants me to call him? I won’t be here long enough to use it much anyway.
“If you’re staying here tonight, it’s Seven.”
“Got it,” I say quickly. “I didn’t mean any disrespect, I promise. I don’t follow hockey that closely, and it’s just what I’ve heard the sports announcers call you. I’m Brynn, by the way. Brynn Fischer.”
He doesn’t say anything back as we keep walking.
