Page 32 of Tricky Puck

Eventually, I make it down from my extremely elevated seat and ask an usher where the dressing rooms are.

“You mean the locker rooms?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“For the Whalers?”

I give him my dead-pan stare, and he points. I follow the direction of his index finger and look for signs. When I see the restricted area, I head that way, though I’m not sure how restricted the locker room is. I came all this way and watched his game, and I’m not leaving without at least seeing him and taking a selfie as proof to Granny that I made an effort.

A security guard puts his arm out when I try to pass him.

“Hold on there, lady. This is a restricted area.”

“I’m here to see Link—Lincoln Milano.”

“Sure you are. Do you have a pass?”

Shit. “Do I need one?”

“Sorry. Please move aside.”

Shit. Why didn’t I figure they’d have security? Everyone has security these days. I move to the side and hang out in the hallway. What are the chances that he’ll be checking his phone about now? I have no idea, but it’s all I have. I text him that I’m in the hallway outside the restricted dressing room—I mean, locker room—and can he let security know I’m not a threat?

I hope Link doesn’t think of me as a threat, but at this point, I’m not so sure. We left with an agreement—that we’d see each other and go along with the matchmaking for a while—but there was no way we were planning on anything serious.

At no time was it ever hinted that we might live together. I hope Granny and the matchmaker weren’t exaggerating their case when they said he was on board with this plan. After a few seconds, where I watch the crowd and various people entering the restricted area, I realize he might not see my text any time soon, so I call. His phone goes right to voicemail. Damn. My last resort is leaving a message, so I do, careful not to sound irritated or desperate or out of sorts in any way. Because I’m not.

Fuck. I so am out of sorts. I’m so fucking out of sorts. Possibly confused. Again—or maybe still.

I probably should have called him earlier today, but I really thought he’d call me and at least tell me it was okay to let myself in since he wasn’t going to be home. Shit. Maybe this wasn’t a good idea to come to the game. Or to his house. It’s not too late to drive straight to George’s cabin without stopping at go.

I’m so out of my element in this place filled with sports fans and no longer amused by people watching, so I’m not paying attention when a group of three women, arm-in-arm and in a hurry, bump into me. I drop my phone.

“I’m so sorry.” A cute redhead stops and bends to pick it up at the same time I do, and we laugh. The other two women stop and wait, eying me curiously. One is petite with dark hair, and the other could be a swimsuit model with a magnificent mane of chestnut hair.

“No problem.” I stick my phone back in my bag, and she and her friends barrel on toward the restricted area.

Whatever crazy impulse makes me follow them, I don’t know, but I’m pretty sure it’s related to the remnants of all those orgasms from two nights ago.

“Shit,” I mutter as I catch up to them. What am I going say to them? The truth seems lame. That I’m here to see Link? Like they haven’t heard that before. The redhead turns. Shit.

“Is everything okay?”

I nod, and it seems my lust-inspired impulses are multiplying. “It’s just…I need to see Link and⁠—”

“You’re here for Link? Come with us,” the beauty with the mane of chestnut hair says—since when do I identify women by their hair color?—and she hooks her arm into mine, and the four of us coast past security—though I glance down at my feet like I have a foot fetish as we walk past the security guard who rejected me earlier. The last thing I want to do is have him call me out and start trouble my first night here.

The least I can do is hold off for a few days before causing a disturbance.

Shit. No more trouble. I’m a poet, not a fighter, right? The only guys I punch in the nose are the ones who give me trouble.

“Link always manages to find the most beautiful women,” the chestnut-haired stunner says, and I almost snort. As we turn the corner, the crowd noise that was a muffled hum gets loud.

We’re confronted by a mob of people, including lots of reporters with mics and TV cameras, a couple of hockey players coming in and out of a door that must be their dressing room—or locker room—or whatever they call it.

I don’t see Link anywhere, and he’d stand out. Now my nerves kick in. “Maybe this was a bad idea,” I say to no one in particular.

“What’s your name?” Chestnut hair says.