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I cross my arms over my chest. “I’m fine. I promise.”
She gives me the “I’m not convinced” side-eye then clocks in on the computer.
While we wait for game time, she takes me around and shows me what she does here. Then we go into a massive kitchen/dining area and steal some bottled smoothies. She’s quick to say that it’s not really stealing since both our husbands are players. I don’t see the logic there, but I guess it’s okay.
When the game is about to start, Emily escorts me to our seats. We’re in the front row, just behind the plexiglass. On the ice are a group of pretty girls dressed in cute red-and-black track suits and black hockey skates. They’re getting the crowd worked up, skating back and forth across the rink.
“Oh! The Spirit Squad is still on the ice,” Emily says excitedly. “I’m glad we didn’t miss it.”
“Are they like cheerleaders?”
“Um, more like a promotional team,” she explains. “They do choreographed dances to drum up excitement for the fans, shoot T-shirts out of cannons, promote the Titans at community events, that sort of stuff. And they help clean the ice surface during media time-outs which makes my job easier when I bring the big resurfacer out at intermission.”
“Well, I approve of their outfits,” I say.
“Are you sure I can’t bring you something warm to wear?” she asks, concerned. “There’s a gift shop…”
“I’m totally fine,” I say. “You better get back to work before they send your husband to come look for you.”
“The guys will be on the ice soon enough. You’ll get to see them do their stretches.” She winks.
“I dunno,” I say. “I might go stand in line for the bathroom for an hour.”
“You want to watch the stretching. Trust me. Anyway, I’m only resurfacing for the first break today,” she says. “Then I’ll come back and join you for the rest of the game. I’ll bring popcorn.”
Emily disappears, leaving me alone in the front row. I’m starting to regret my outfit choice as the chill of the arena seeps into my bones. But I’ll be damned if I admit it now. I fidget in my seat, feeling exposed without Emily as a buffer.
The Spirit Squad finishes their routine, skating off the ice to thunderous applause. I’m about to check my phone when the players emerge, pouring out like a pack of wolves.
And then there’s Sawyer. I watch him as he glides out, all grace and power.
Oh. My. Lawdy.
He starts his warm-up routine, and suddenly I’m very interested in the intricacies of on-ice stretching. The moves these guys are making. Is this even appropriate for children?
Sawyer catches my eye and winks, clearly aware of the effect he’s having. I try to look away, I really do. But it’s like watching a train wreck in slow motion—if that train wreck had abs you could grate cheese on and thighs that could crush watermelons. Not that I’ve ever seen his abs—only felt them with my fingers. I flush at the thought.
Sawyer does some kind of hip flex move on all fours, staring straight at me.
Smug son of a gun.
He knows exactly what he’s doing. I narrow my eyes at him, trying to convey ‘I hate you’ through sheer force of will. He responds by stretching even more provocatively. He truly is quite flexible.
I thought the suit parade was bad, but this? This is torture. This kind of unholy groin stretching should be illegal in at least forty-nine states. And Canada. Definitely Canada.
When the game starts, I find myself leaning forward, eyes glued to number eleven. I mean, there’s not much else to do, so I might as well watch in case there’s a quiz after.
Sawyer is very confident out there. Sure, he peacocks for the fans, but when the puck drops, he’s insanely focused. He’s a battle tank in motion, wearing knife shoes, weaving between opponents like he’s dancing. He’s surprisingly agile for such a big guy and clearly an asset for the team. Owen and Hendrix are out there with him. The way they effortlessly slice around the rink in loopy formation, passing the puck between themselves, you’d think they had some kind of triplet telepathy.
During a media break, Sawyer skates toward me with that infuriating smirk plastered on his face. He turns his back to the glass, slamming against it. The name “O’MALLEY” stretches across his broad shoulders. But then he turns his head over his shoulder and points from his name on the jersey to me, his eyes gleaming with mischief.
Real subtle, Sawyer. Why don’t you just pee on my leg while you’re at it?
I shake my head vehemently, mouthing “Not happening” at him.
He just grins wider, blowing me a kiss before skating away. The nerve of this man, I swear.
A few minutes later, a brunette beauty in a Spirit Squad uniform approaches me, holding a folded jersey. “Excuse me, are you Maggie?”
