by Sarina Bowen
“No it doesn’t! Jesus.” I chase her toward the kitchen, hoping for a kiss.
She puts her coffee cup in the sink. “The car is downstairs. Saddle up!”
“Oh fuck.” I sigh. “I need two more minutes. I forgot to make my peanut butter and…”
Heidi grabs a paper lunch bag off the counter and thrusts it into my hands. And from the weight and shape, I know it can only be another peanut butter and strawberry jam sandwich, cut diagonally just how I like it.
“Ohh.” I let out a moan of happiness. And, fuck. My tongue is hanging out—but just a little. And only for a second. “You’re the best girl in the whole fucking world.” And can I take off your sweater now?
“Had to do it,” she says. “Can’t break the streak. San Jose looks tough this season.”
“But I’m tougher, right?” I actually puff out my chest.
“Of course, baby. That’s just a given.” Her heeled boots click importantly on the wood floor as she hefts her suitcase off a chair.
“Hey now,” I say, stopping her. “I said I’d carry that.”
“I can lift my own bag,” she says at close range, those big eyes going slightly soft now that we’re nose to nose.
“Sure you can,” I whisper. “But you’re not going to carry it when I’m standing here with two functioning arms. Thanks again for the sandwich. I know you’re doing it for the whole Brooklyn franchise. But I sure do appreciate it.”
Her gaze softens again. “I know you do. And I’m not superstitious at all. Peanut butter and jam can’t beat San Jose. I only make that sandwich because it makes you happy.”
Well, now I have to kiss her. I duck my head and quickly skim my lips across hers. She stands up on her tiptoes and wraps her arms around me while I slowly claim her mouth.
“Mmm.” Heidi sighs against my tongue as we kiss.
Didn’t I say it’s been a great month? I pull her body against mine and her warmth does nice things to my heart.
“Keep the make-out sesh brief,” Silas says from the front hall. “Isn’t it time to go?”
My girl pulls back with a smile on her face. “I’ll let you carry my bag if only to save your tender male ego.”
“Good call.” I steal one more kiss. “It will be nice having you in my hotel room tonight.”
Slowly, she shakes her head. “The support staff are staying at a Holiday Inn near the airport.”
“What? No! I need you close to me.”
“We’ll see,” she says. “I don’t want to look like a prima donna.”
“You’re not,” I insist. “And please don’t rent a shithole apartment just to prove your independence. It doesn’t need proving.”
She lifts her blue eyes to mine. “Maybe it does. To me.”
“Oh.” I really don’t see why that would be. But I’m a smart enough man not to say so. “Let’s go to California. What job did you say you were working on this trip?”
“I didn’t say.” She strides into the hallway in front of me. And I swear there’s an extra little butt wiggle there that’s meant to torture me.
My girl is right. San Jose does look tough this season. The game is a gongshow. It’s dirty. So many of our opponent’s hands are grabbing various parts of my body, that it’s more like a rave than a hockey game.
Midway through the second period we have a hard-fought 1-1 draw. I’m gulping Gatorade when Coach says, “Let’s mix it up a little. I’m putting your line up for the faceoff next time.”
“Sure thing.”
But after the next whistle there’s a media timeout, so we all get a chance to breathe. I ruminate on our opponent’s defense squad and try to formulate a plan. Meanwhile, the team mascots take the ice. There’s a furry blue fish and our own Brooklyn brown bear. They’re having a faux-fight—the kind of thing I always ignore.
But for some weird reason, I feel a tingle at the back of my skull. And I glance up to see the bear do a graceful spin in front of the penalty box.
“Holy shit.” Trevi whistles. “Our bear can skate.”
My eyes widen as the Brooklyn bear executes a double axel, landing with its furry brown arms outstretched. There are hoots of laughter from the crowd. But not from the other mascot. The fish swerves, cutting off the bear’s path, moving in and punching the bear right in the neck.
“That doesn’t look very sportsmanlike,” a teammate says.
But the San Jose fans like it. “Fight! Fight! Fight!” they cry.
Our bear squares himself to the fish, and raises a pair of furry fists. But anyone can see that it isn’t a good matchup. The fish towers over the bear. And even though flippers aren’t known as weapons in the wild, this fish winds up and clocks our bear right in the chin.
“Fuck ’im up!” yells some cretin in the stands.
Our bear seems to realize he can’t win with brawn, so he goes for flare instead, executing a roundhouse kick that neatly avoids actually touching the fish, and then follows that up with a stylish spin maneuver.
“Holy shit!” Silas laughs from the other end of the bench. “Now we know what job they gave Heidi this week. Mystery solved.”
Holy shit indeed. That tingle moves down my backbone as I realize he’s right. Only Heidi could bring such flare to the bear suit. And she said she used to compete at skating when she was little.
The fish is unimpressed, though. He keeps trying to jab at her, while Heidi is literally skating circles around him. He flaps those long flippers, spoiling for a fight.
Then Heidi skates toward him, as if she means to engage. But—psych! She’s too quick. The fish punches and misses. The crowd howls.
You’d think that a guy in a whole-body fish suit couldn’t look angry. But you’d be wrong.
“The bear won’t fight!” yells some asshole in the crowd.
“The bear is a pussy!” screams another.
“Take it like a man, bear!” As if that makes any sense at all.
I grow increasingly uneasy, because Heidi doesn’t seem to sense the anger in the room. Or maybe she does, and she’s just running down the clock. Then again, no sensible person would do what she does next—skating up fast and then pulling a hockey stop so sudden that she sprays the fish with ice shavings. It’s the ultimate burn in hockey.
And then? Heidi opens her furry arms as if to say, I’m right here. What’s the problem?
The shark lunges. The crowd roars. As my heart climbs my throat, both mascots go down in a heap of blue and brown fur.
“Fight fight fight!”
“Oh, shit,” Trevi whispers as the mascots begin to grapple. Heidi has the fish by its snout. She gives him a shove and then tries to roll away. A wave of nausea rolls through me as the fish whips his skates around in an arc.
A sharpened skate can kill you. I’m on my feet now.
“Hey,” Trevi says, pulling me back down. “Heidi’s smart. She won’t get herself in trouble.”
For a few beats of my heart, I actually believe him. Heidi pops to her feet and skates away from the shark. But then she looks over her shoulder at him. She puts her big fuzzy hands on her big fuzzy hips and shakes her giant padded ass. You can’t catch me.
He tries, though. A mad fish is a fast fish. He’s practically on her little bob of a tail already. Heidi weaves and dodges down the ice. Her footwork is amazing, but the fish has a longer stride. When he closes in on her, the asshole uses one of his skates to sweep her legs out from under her.
All my blood stops circulating as he reaches down and picks her up in his flipper arms. I’m on my feet again.
Heidi flails while the crowd roars.
“Sit down!” Trevi hisses to me. “You set foot on that ice and they’ll penalize the team and also fine you.”
I can’t even breathe as the fish staggers forward and hurls Heidi into the hockey net. I’m already over the wall and skating toward them even as her head bounces off the surface of the ice.
“Goal!” yells some asshole fan.
The next three seconds are a blur.
I reach the goal crease as the fish is celebrating and Heidi is trying to scramble to her feet. But she’s caught in the net.
“What the fuck, man?” yells the fish as I push him out of the way.
I reach into the net and pull the Brooklyn brown bear into my arms. “Let me go!” Heidi shrieks. “I’m going to kick his ass!”
“You know you’re beating up a woman?” I snarl at the fish.
The ref is blowing his whistle like crazy as I stand up, carrying my girl.
“What are you doing?” Heidi squeaks as I skate quickly toward the chute, where a very puzzled rink official pulls open the door so I can set her onto the rubber padding. “I could have won!”
It’s dawning on me that twenty thousand people are watching as I glare at Heidi through the mesh eye holes of her costume. I put a hand on her fuzzy head. “Are you hurt?”
“No! I’m fine! You just got yourself in trouble for nothing!”
That’s when the game announcer calls a two-minute bench minor against Brooklyn for delay of the game.
“See?” she yells, flailing her furry arms unhappily. “Now the fish gets a power play!”
I’m vaguely aware of an entire stadium laughing.
“You do your job, I’ll do mine!” she yells, her furry arms outstretched.
The ref’s whistle slices through the air, calling me to the penalty box.
Gritting my teeth, I go.
30
Heidi
“I can’t believe you have a black eye!” Rebecca fusses.
“It’s not black,” I argue. “Just a little purple. And it’s tiny.”
Becca gives me a knowing look and hands me an ice pack. “Sit there on the desk.” We’re in a barren little office underneath the San Jose stadium. “Maybe we should have the doctor go through the concussion protocol.”
“No way!” I yelp. “Did you see how thick the padding is on that bear suit? It’s like wearing a beanbag chair on my head.”
“Then how’d you get a black eye?
She’s got me there. “The head rotated a little. I bruised my eyebrow on the face frame when I landed. It’s nothing.”
“I guess there’s not much swelling.” Rebecca leans over me, clucking like a mother hen. “But I feel terrible. This assignment was supposed to be fun. It was your reward for suffering through all those other horrible jobs you’ve been doing.”
“Whatever,” I reassure my boss. “We shall not speak of this again.”
Rebecca sighs. “Okay. It’s in the vault.”
I’m deeply embarrassed about the whole thing—about losing a fight to a stuffed fish and about letting him get me so riled up. I didn’t even know I was capable of that kind of blood lust.
All the battle scenes in Outlander make more sense to me now, at least. Given the right set of conditions, I could run a sword through my enemy. Daddy wanted me to learn some things about myself? He didn’t count on this.
Nothing can make me feel better, either. We lost the game 2-1. San Jose scored during Jason’s penalty minutes. I’m still almost as mad at Jason as I am at myself.
Almost.
“I guess we can look on the bright side,” Rebecca says. “The footage is hilarious.”
“That is not the bright side,” I grumble.
“When you shook your butt at the fish…” Rebecca’s giggle shakes her whole body. “Priceless!”
I don’t want to see the footage. I wish the linoleum floor would open up and swallow me. Instead, I tap the screen of my phone, checking the time. We’re waiting for the post-game press conference to wind down. Can I make my escape yet?
At least I’m no longer wearing a smelly bear suit. I’m dressed in yoga pants and a Brooklyn hoodie that I stole from Jason. I’d rather be invisible. I just want to go back to the Holiday Inn and pull the sheets over my head, pretending this night never happened.
But the support-staff bus won’t pull up until every player has cleared out of the locker room. I’ll probably have to help the travel team load hockey gear onto the bus, if only to speed them up.
Georgia Trevi breezes into the room looking fresh and happy in spite of our loss tonight. "Heidi, there you are! The first blog posts are up and just look at this photo someone got!”
She’s smiling, but I brace myself anyway. The last time Georgia had a photo to show me, it was me as a stumbling drunk. Tonight it’s bound to be me in the bear suit, tangled up in the hockey net.
They must be scratching my name off the charm-school graduates’ list by now.
“Puck Buddy’s is actually doing a Caption This contest! Check it out.” She thrusts her Katt Phone into my hands.
There I am, standing tall at least. Small blessings. The fish isn’t in the shot, either. This photo is Jason and me, face to face, his hand on the top of the bear-suit head. The deathly serious expression on his face is in direct contrast to the silly bear’s smile on my costume.
My heart can’t even sort out all the things I feel when I look at this picture. All I want is to be treated like an adult—by my father and by Jason. But it’s always one step forward and then two steps back. Here he is scolding me like a child.
Although Becca and Georgia have no trouble seeing the humor in it. They’re giggling away. A hockey player scolding a stuffed animal? Hilarious!
Privately, I’m grinding my teeth. It’s yet one more instance of a man trying to rescue me again when I don’t need rescuing.
And here comes the man himself, stalking into the room, trailed by Tommy, the other publicist. Jason is wearing a well-cut suit and a scowl.
I whip the ice pack off my eyebrow, but I’m a little too late.
That scowl deepens. “You’re hurt? Jesus Christ.” He strides over to cup my chin possessively. Then he squints at my tiny bruise. “He gave you a shiner?” Those dark brown eyes get dark and wild.
And, fine, his caveman expression gets me a little hot. I’m only human. But I wish he’d save this show of protectiveness for a private moment when we’re both naked. Although I feel naked right now, because Becca and Georgia are watching with great interest.
“I’m fine.” I push his hand off my face. “Don’t fuss.”
But he only relocates those hands to my shoulders. “I’m not a fan of you getting hurt.”
“I’m not a fan of you telling me off in front of twenty thousand people! If you think I’m sneaking into your hotel room after that, think again!”
Becca and Georgia lean in, fascinated. Whoops. I swear they’re paying more attention right now than they did to the actual game.
“You don’t want to hear me get upset? Then don’t pick fights with assholes!” Jason says.
“He started it!” I squeak. “But everything was under control!”
It’s a lie. I lost that fight. Jason’s expression says he knows the truth, too. I brace myself for more of his scolding. But instead he does something more brutal. He leans down and kisses me right on the lips.
And it’s no quick peck—it’s a bossy, hungry, claiming sort of kiss. My toes curl inside my ankle boots as his tongue seeks out mine. I get a hold of my senses and pull back, although now I can’t remember the finer points of why I’m angry.
“Well, well.” Becca chuckles. “Who knew Castro had a thing for bears?”
Georgia high-fives her, and they both crack up.
“Not funny,” Jason growls. “How could you put Heidi in that position tonight?”
Becca sobers up quickly. “Usually the mascots meet beforehand to discuss their shenanigans. But the fish was unavailable. Turns out he was getting high in the men’s room. I’ve already asked Hugh to write a letter to the team, demanding an apology for Heidi.”
“Oh, let’s not make a federal case out of it,” I snap. “The worst thing about tonight’s job is that the bear costume smells like B.O.” I had to sneak into the visitors’ locker room during the third period to shower.
“Am I getting in some kind of trouble with the league for leaving the
bench?” Jason asks.
“I doubt it?” Becca shrugs. “Hugh and your agent will sort it out. The league could technically fine you. But since you left the bench to stop a fight, not to start one, it’s unlikely they’ll want to make an example of you.”
“I won’t apologize,” Jason says. “That was an unsafe situation.”
“We get it,” Becca says with twinkling eyes. “Carry on, then.” She walks out of the room, still smiling.
“Actually…” Georgia walks over to the office door and closes it. “I have something else I need to talk to you about, Jason. It doesn’t have a thing to do with tonight’s game. It’s a private matter.”
A beat goes by, and then I realize that was my cue. “I’ll go,” I say, sliding off the desk.
“No, stay,” Jason grunts, catching me by the hand. “Ice that eye. Whatever Georgia has to say, you can hear it. I don’t have any secrets.”
My anger instantly cools. The press of his hand against mine is nice. And I can’t deny that I get a thrill every time he says, “Stay here with me.” Whether he says it with his words or with his hands or with his eyes, I fall a little further into his thrall.
I’ve never been so obsessed with anyone in my life. It’s exciting, but it’s also trouble. This thing that Jason and I have going on is even better than I’d hoped for. Little by little, I’m falling for him. I don’t know if that’s allowed, but I don’t know that I can help it.
“So here’s the issue,” Georgia says, her voice oddly hushed. “Earlier today I got a weird call asking for a meeting with you, Jason. It’s an unusual request. I told this young woman that I’d get back to her in a week or so. So let me share this with you now so you can think about it.”
“Okay?” He looks confused, and I don’t blame him.
Georgia sits down on a broken desk chair and puts her chin in her hands. “So there’s a young woman in Minnesota. A senior at the university, playing her last college hockey season.”
“That’s nice?” Jason says. “How do I fit in?”
“Six years ago she wasn’t able to play hockey. She was basically dying. A surgery she’d had went wrong and damaged her liver. But then she was gifted a liver transplant, by a young woman named…”
