by Sarina Bowen
24
Heidi
I wake up two hours later beside a sleeping Jason. His hand is heavy on my hip. Remaining very still, I spy on him for a moment. His inky eyelashes fan out toward handsome cheekbones. His strong chest rises and falls with each breath.
When I told him I couldn’t wrap my head around us as a couple, I wasn’t kidding. He could have anyone. Not only is he an amazing athlete, he’s handsome. He’s witty. And kind, too.
The mark of a good man isn’t the way he speaks to me when he’s trying to impress. It’s in the way he speaks to all the little people in his life—the doorman, the taxi driver, the bartender.
Jason Castro is a rare combination of gentle and fierce. He’s exactly my type. If he wants to actually date me, that’s a dream come true. Yet I worry.
He never used to date. Why now? And why me?
Here’s the weird thing—I used to think of myself as a catch. I was a queen bee in high school. I’m smart and funny, too. And it’s not bragging to say that the Pepper family gene pool was kind to me and that I take good care of myself.
But my self-esteem is on pretty shaky ground these days. I didn’t fit in at Bryn Mawr, and it threw me for a loop. I let a couple of confusing years get me down.
My lack of self-confidence is a new problem for me, and I know I’m not supposed to let it get me down. If this beautiful (though slightly bossy) man thinks we should be together, then I’m going to give it a spin. On my terms, of course.
But first, I have a night of work to get through. I slip out of bed, letting my man get his rest, and head for the shower.
An hour later Jason stumbles into the kitchen, his hair crazy and his eyes half-mast. “Hey,” he grunts. “Naps always—” He yawns.
“—turn you into a zombie?” I finish. “Sit.” When he plunks himself into a chair, I set a mug of coffee in front of him.
He cups the mug as if it were a treasure, then raises his sleepy brown eyes to me. “I knew I picked the right girl.”
“Is that all it takes?” Moving to stand behind him, I run a hand through his messy hair. Then I put my hands on his shoulders and squeeze.
Jason lets out a happy moan.
I work his shoulder muscles for a few seconds. “Now drink that coffee. We need you sharp for Tampa.”
He lifts a hand to catch mine. “Heidi, can I ask you a weird favor?”
“Sure. Shoot.”
“Would you make my sandwich again?”
“Oh.” I take two steps toward the counter and pick up the paper bag I’ve set there. “It’s already done.”
His eyes widen when I set it on the table. “You’re amazing.”
“Thank you. Beat Tampa, and then I’ll allow you to show your complete appreciation.” I don’t point out that it took me three minutes to make that sandwich. If he thinks a little PBJ makes me Supergirl, so be it.
“I have a good feeling about this game,” he says, gulping the coffee. “You’re going to be there, right?”
“Unfortunately, I am.” My job tonight is a pain in the backside. But the smile he gives me might even be worth it.
Jason reports to the arena at four, while I have to show up at five. I’m working on the ice-maintenance crew again, but the job looks a whole lot different on game night. And not in a good way.
“This won’t fit me,” I tell Mr. Randy Cavanaugh, the head of the ice crew. My friend the walrus isn’t in charge on game night, and I already miss him.
Randy is a surlier boss. He wears a goatee and a permanent scowl. And he just handed me a ridiculous uniform.
“This is extra-small,” I explain. “I’m a small or a medium, depending on the fit.”
“Shoulda got here at the beginning of the season,” he says. “Put it on. You got seven minutes until doors.”
“But…”
“No buts.” He sneers. “This is bullshit anyway. Tryouts were three months ago. You’re not even trained. Can’t believe I gotta have you on my crew just ’cause some boss thinks you’re a hot piece.”
My mouth flies open, but no words come out. His crudeness has stunned me into silence. But even if it hadn’t, I don’t ever tell my short-term bosses who I am, or why I’m suddenly assigned to them for the week. Nothing good will come of letting this asshole know that my daddy is in charge of hockey, or that I’m taking notes on everything I see.
So I force my mouth closed, turn around, and retreat into the tiny dressing room, where five other women are all trying to touch up their makeup in an undersized mirror. “Is he always such a charmer?” I ask the room full of strangers.
“Sometimes he’s worse,” says one of them. “You’re the new girl? Did he fire Amber?”
“I sure hope not,” I say, tugging my jeans off. “I’m just a temp. I might not last the night if this bra top won’t fit me.”
“They stretch,” another woman promises. “I’m Lydia, hon. Yell if you need help.”
“Thanks,” I gasp, pulling up the tiny skirt they gave me. It has a built-in panty brief. So as long as the seams don’t split apart, I won’t be flashing Brooklyn. But Lord, I can’t even breathe when I pull it up.
“Wow, you poor thing,” Lydia says, eyeing me in the mirror. “You can probably order the next size up online. There’s an option for rush shipping, but it costs forty dollars.”
“Great,” I grumble, stretching the bra top to try to pull it down over my head. “Did y’all have to buy your own uniforms, too? He said he was taking it out of my pay.”
“Of course,” another girl chirps. “This is practically a charity gig when you count up the unpaid time and the uniform. Nobody tells you this shit when you try out. They’re all—think of the exposure you’ll get!”
They’re right about the exposure. Ten minutes later my whole body is repeatedly exposed to the chilly nighttime air as the arena doors open and shut in front of me. I’ve just learned that being a Bruisers Ice Girl is a literal description. My cleavage is quickly turning to ice.
The Ice Girls’ main job is to skate across the rink during the game, removing accumulated snow. But we won’t get to lace up our skates for another ninety minutes. First we have to stand here mostly naked and greet the guests as they arrive.
I brace myself as the doors open again, admitting a group of red-faced men and another blast of arctic air.
“Smile,” grunts Cavanaugh from somewhere behind me.
I want to choke him. But I paste on my charm-school grin instead. “Welcome to the Brooklyn Arena! Drinks are half price until warmups are over.”
“Thanks, honey,” says a beefy guy with a Yankees cap pulled down low on his forehead. “You could join me for a cocktail. And maybe a sausage.” He winks, and his friends crack up.
“Have a great game!” I say through a clenched jaw.
Randy Cavanaugh is watching me, so I resist the urge to tug at my so-called clothing. It’s forty-two degrees outside, and I’m basically dressed in a bikini. My boobs are practically spilling out of the V-neck bra top.
Who designs a bra top with a plunging V-neck? A man, that’s who. Rebecca is going to get a long email about this. With shouty caps and photo illustrations. And if I could somehow hide a recording device in my tiny clothes, I’d give her an earful of this man’s tone every time he speaks to me…
“Smile, damn it,” he snarls behind me.
I hate men who tell women to smile. Would Coach ever order his players to smile? No he would not.
And I hate my father. He thinks he’s teaching me a lesson. I think he’s giving me pneumonia instead. Ice Girls don’t have health insurance, either.
The doors open again, and I grit my teeth.
25
Jason
Tonight I need to bring the magic again. If I score, that makes three games in a row. It’s the poor man’s hat trick.
Also, if I score, I score with the hottest, feistiest woman to cross my path in a long time. I won’t lie. As the first period heats up, it’s helping my moti
vation.
We miss Bayer, the poor bastard. Drake and Campeau and I are trying to find our rhythm. But I’m skating with two new guys and we don’t have enough history together to make this easy.
My first several shifts are hard fought, but we don’t manage to create any scoring chances. The defenseman who’s guarding me tonight does an excellent job of getting in my way. I’m going to have to punish him for it before the night is through.
Then Tampa scores at the goddamn seven-minute mark. I’m not on the ice when it happens, but it still burns me.
There I am sitting on the bench, chugging water and thinking about my strategy when I spot some familiar blond curls whiz by me at top speed.
Holy shit. Heidi is skating with the Ice Girls tonight.
I don’t usually spare a glance at the Ice Girls. I’m too busy thinking about the game. Not this time, though. My gaze is locked on Heidi as she accelerates toward the far corner.
Can she handle this? The Ice Girls skate fast and in formation. They need to clean the whole rink in two minutes flat. What if Heidi stumbles and goes flying? They’re not even wearing helmets!
As I watch and worry, Heidi steers her shovel in a stylish arc around the boards, her bare legs executing a series of perfect crossovers.
Huh. I guess she can skate. Maybe you’d have to if you grew up in the Pepper household. She never mentioned skating before. But she moves like a natural.
I’m not the only one who’s paying attention, either. Some asshole lets out a deafening cat whistle. He’s a few rows up, behind the plexi, but his voice is so loud I can hear every word. “Nice rack on the new girl. Praying for a wardrobe malfunction, here. Show us your tits!”
I’m on my feet immediately, turning to scan the crowd.
“Take it easy,” Trevi says under his breath.
But I am not easy. And then I spot the guy as he calls out, “Hey, honey! Resurface this!” He grabs his crotch while his buddies laugh.
My fist makes an equally deafening crash against the plexi. “Hey, asshole! Is that how you speak to women?”
Every fan in earshot turns to stare, including the asswipe I’m yelling at. And then he opens his ugly mouth again. “Just do your job, brutha,” he chirps. “How much do they pay you to lose to Tampa?”
I ought to climb over the plexi and flatten him.
“Sit the fuck down,” Coach snarls. “Christ. You know better.”
He’s right, but I still want to slug the guy. Nevertheless, I turn my back and sit.
“He’s not worth it,” Beringer mutters to me.
As if I don’t know that. At the ref’s whistle, our starters skate out for the faceoff. The game wears on. I dig deep on every shift, but I’m struggling.
And that asswipe fan’s voice has some kind of direct line into my ears. Every time he chirps a rude comment, I can hear it. “Get the lead out, fucktard!” he yells when Leo Trevi doesn’t quite get to a puck in time.
It’s the typical bullshit we learn to tune out. But tonight I’m gritting my teeth.
And then the Ice Girls come on again.
This time I’m paying rapt attention as Heidi glides out like a goddess, her chin high, her movements sharp. Her attitude is all business.
“Smile, new girl!” yells some dipshit wearing a goatee and a Bruisers Ice Crew jacket.
Heidi bares her teeth.
“Why so grumpy?” yells the asshole behind me. “I’ll give you something to smile about, baby.”
My growl sounds like a rabid beast’s. That’s when Coach puts his thumb on my shoulder blade.
I leap over the wall as the Ice Girls retreat and head out for the faceoff, my blood pounding in my ears. Campeau wins the puck and flicks it to me.
Feeling angry and unruly, I snatch the puck and drag it behind my body, attempting to deke the D-man. And it works. For a split second his gaze lags on the wrong side. And then I fire the puck like a missile through the smallest gap between players that I’ve ever hit in my life.
And, fuck me, but it works! The lamp lights, and for a half second I’m just stunned. But there it is—a one on the scoreboard where there had been a donut before. I scored.
A slow smile breaks across my face, and I turn to try to find Heidi or the sidelines. She’s nowhere to be seen, but Drake and Campeau charge me for a celly while the DJ blasts the Beastie Boys.
First goal of the night, ladies! It belongs to me.
When I finally go back to the bench, the asswipe yells to me, “Not bad for a skinny shit!”
“Kiss my skinny ass!” I holler in the general vicinity of his seat.
Then I turn around and tune him out for the rest of the game.
We win 3-2 during a sloppy overtime period. But it still counts. I’m dog-tired when it’s done, but I’m still smiling.
The glow lasts until I come out of the showers to find my least favorite reporter waiting for me.
“How does it feel to be back?” Miranda Wager asks.
“It feels like I never left,” I fire back. Then I turn my back and drop my towel.
“I walked right into that one, didn’t I?” she asks my naked ass.
“Pretty much.”
“Fine. You want to give me a better quote?”
“Not really. That flying saucer of a goal speaks for itself, don’t you think?”
“Okay, modest one. Do you have any comment about the racist fan who heckled you tonight?”
“Racist? Did I miss something?”
“He called you ‘brutha.’”
Rolling my eyes, I pull up my boxers. Then I turn around and shrug. “Is that a thing? I’m sorry, but I didn’t have any opinion about him at all, other than he was irritatingly loud and I was in a grumpy mood. It faded the second I got the sweetest goal of my life. Then I forgot all about him.”
She eyes me sullenly. I’m sure her job is more fun when the athletes take her bait. But she can peddle it elsewhere tonight. “Good game,” she says eventually. “Have fun with your parents.”
“My parents?” What bullshit is she spinning now?
“They’re in the hallway. You look exactly like your dad.” She walks away to bust someone else’s balls.
Good Lord, but that woman is nosy. Before I make it out of the locker room, two more journalists corral me. But all these dudes want to talk about is team readiness, my awesome goal, and our next game against Philadelphia. They don’t try to psychoanalyze me.
When I finally sling my duffel bag over my shoulder and walk out, the first people I see are my mom and dad. “Hey!” I shout. “Look who it is!”
“Sweetheart!” Mom shrieks. I get a bracing hug. “Great goal! Like threading a needle!”
“Thank you for noticing.” My parents might not love hockey, but they do pay attention.
“Good work, kid,” my dad says. “Sorry we didn’t call.”
“Eh, Silvia warned me that you were planning a surprise attack.”
“We got cheap airfare. Two hundred bucks!” Mom gushes. She loves a bargain. And since I always send my comp seats for home games to my parents, they don’t really have to plan ahead.
“No hotel, though,” my dad says with an apologetic smile. “Hope that’s okay.”
“No problem,” I say immediately. That’s why I bought the pull-out couch in the first place. “Where’s your luggage?”
“Right here,” he says, showing me a backpack. “We travel light.”
“Great. Okay.” I’m wrapping my head around this change of plans. Heidi is going to have to wrap hers around it, too. And that’s going to cause a stir. “Let’s get out of here. But first I have to find someone.”
I pull out my phone and text Heidi. Still here? Where can I find you?
She doesn’t respond right away. “Hungry?” I ask my parents.
Mom shakes her head. “We ate dinner before the game.” Of course they did. Mom would rather lose a limb than pay twelve bucks for an overpriced stadium cheeseburger.
“Wouldn�
��t turn down a beer, though,” my father says, proving that in spite of our differences, I’m probably not adopted.
“Okay. We could go to the tavern or have a beer at home. Let me see what Heidi wants to do.”
My mother’s eyes grow as wide as saucers. “Who is Heidi? Jason Lucas Castro—do you have a girlfriend?” Her voice gets a little higher with every word.
And that’s when I notice that Miranda Wager has left the locker room and is leaning against the wall, watching us.
“No,” I say immediately. “A friend.” I’ll be damned if I give a reporter any fodder to write about my personal life.
Mom frowns and Dad chuckles.
“Let’s go,” I say, heading toward the players’ exit.
My phone chimes with a text as soon as we get outside. I’m by the front doors, she says. I have five more minutes on the clock and have to grab my things.
“Mind if we walk around the stadium?” I ask.
My parents follow me gamely around the big structure. “I thought we’d go out for brunch tomorrow morning,” my mother says.
“Sure,” I say, mentally crossing off the leisurely morning I’d planned in bed with Heidi. But my parents only get two or three nights with me during the season. I always spend a week in Minnesota with them during the summer. Sometimes we rent a cottage in Ontario, near the place where I grew up.
I love my family, even if they aren’t good at planning their visits. Although I suspect that’s intentional. Castros are nosy. Every one of us.
When we round the front of the building, I spot Heidi outside. That ought to be good news, except she’s still wearing her skimpy Ice Girls uniform and I can see her shivering from fifty paces away.
“Hey!” I say, breaking into a trot. “What are you doing out here wearing that?”
“It’s the r-r-rules,” she says, her teeth chattering together. “We have to work the d-doors.”
I don’t even think, I just pull her against my chest. “Jesus. Do they know it’s forty degrees out here?”
“The g-girls are allowed to stand inside when it dips below freezing.”
