Page 27 of The Groupie

The horn blows, grabbing my attention as the teams file off the ice to the bench while the Zambonis return for a quick run around, and then the players line up at center ice for the national anthem. From that moment, with my eyes trained on Zak lined up on the Brawlers blue line, the column of nerves along my spine trills a warning before I clamp down.

The puck drops, and Sheila watches the game like a cheerleader, arms pumping, shouting and jumping from her seat with frequency. The rest of the room doesn’t match her enthusiasm, but they’re far from quiet. In fact, I’m the anomaly.

Aside from the fact that I’m the only one not wearing team gear, I’m also the only one who did not jump from my seat when Zak scored both the first and last goal of the game, giving the Brawlers a three-to-one win. I’d blame it on my ankle, but I’m not the jump up and fist pump kind of girl.

There’s a reason I was never a cheerleader. It’s called the stark reality of my past instilling too much wariness to allow enthusiasm to get a foothold.

When the final horn blows, Sheila gives me a hug, and I roll my eyes. Some of the others in the box turn their attention to the large screen TV which has been on in the background. They turn up the sound.

“Let’s watch the post-game interviews,” Sheila says.

I shrug. “Why not?” I have a half hour to wait for Zak now, and then I’m supposed to take the elevator down to the basement to meet him somewhere outside the locker room.

The others from the box, whose names I’ve already forgotten, watch as the sportscaster introduces Zak.

“He’s on fire as a defenseman scoring two goals in one game.”

“The second goal was an empty netter. It doesn’t count,” Zak says, his half grin showing one sexy dimple.

I stop moving and try not to stare too hard.

“That killer slap shot from the blueline certainly counts. It was extraordinarily accurate,” the sportscaster says.

“I practice. A lot.” Zak expands his grin, looking straight into the camera, and I take in his face, the sweat trickling down his temples, his hair disheveled as he swings it back, the bulge of his Adam’s apple as it bobs when he takes a gulp from his water bottle, and I hope to God from her close proximity next to me that Sheila doesn’t notice the rise in my body temperature.

After smiling at Zak’s modest response, the sportscaster continues. “Some say your slap shot is reminiscent of Bobby Hull’s. That you’re a lot like Hull only bigger and a defenseman.” The man shoves the microphone back in Zak’s face.

He laughs. “You mean, I’m nothing like Bobby Hull.”

“Except for the killer slap shot.”

Zak looks pleased and embarrassed at the same time, and I’m mesmerized. “This guy is wicked authentic, wearing it all on his sleeve,” I whisper to Sheila.

“That’s Zak,” she says.

I glance her way. “Hey, you’re not really into him, right?”

“Of course not. He’s all yours.”

“That’s not how it is.” I continue to whisper even as some of the other patrons drift away from the TV and start putting on their coats.

“Then how is it, Rylee? Because I’ve never seen him go to so much trouble over a girl before.”

“And?”

“And I wouldn’t want you to hurt him—”

“Hurt him? How? He’s impervious. All he wants is a good time. Believe me.” I turn away from Sheila and watch the sportscaster move on to interview someone else. Exhaling, I loosen up.

“I suppose you’re right,” Sheila says. “How’s your ankle holding up? You never did say how it happened.”

The son of a bitch is throbbing. I should have put it up, but no way I’m admitting to that. I have eight days for it to heal enough to snowboard. Shit. I might need a shot of cortisone.

“It’s fine. I told you I twisted it jumping out of a helicopter.”

She laughs, clearly not believing me, as I knew she wouldn’t. Someone turns off the TV, and the consensus in the room is that it’s time to leave. We exchange polite murmurs about the great game, and I walk without the limp, feeling every ounce of pressure I put on it as we file into the elevator.

Following the crowd, we meet Zak downstairs outside the locker room. He hugs Sheila like an old friend. He winks at me. I stand out of reach with my ball cap pulled down, wishing it didn’t have a Burton logo. Who wears a ski and board brand to a hockey game?