by Sarina Bowen
Not that I’m letting it show. During the pregame rituals, I ignore all the strangeness and try to concentrate. I tape up my stick, and then tape it up again. Nothing to see here.
There’s tension in the room. Castro sits across from me, chewing his lucky peanut butter sandwich like it’s life or death. Silas is—as usual—stretching his body on the floor, getting limber to mind the goal. But he’s also eyeing us, one by one, wondering if we’re ready.
Coach walks by, grabbing my shoulder pad and giving it a hard squeeze. “Don’t let him rile you up.”
“I won’t,” I grunt. There’s no need to ask who he means. All week Palacio has been talking smack on Twitter—making predictions, and making sure the whole world knows that my production is down this year. He’s all about the bullshit mind games.
I can’t let that fucker win.
“Listen up, guys!” Rebecca trots into the room, wearing a purple dress and matching heels. “Tonight, rain or shine, we’re having a victory party in the hotel lobby.”
“What?” Castro yelps. “Did you just jinx us? Have you met hockey players?”
“I thought you might say that,” Rebecca says with a smile. “But victory means something special to me tonight. This is only one regular-season game. It doesn’t matter all that much.”
“It does to me,” O’Doul grumbles.
“Be that as it may,” Rebecca says, undaunted. “Nate is in Dallas with us tonight, and this is the city where he proposed to me. So that’s a victory right there. Furthermore, the last time we had a victory party at this hotel, they served the most amazing queso dip, and I’ve been thinking about it for two years.”
“That’s what Tex-Mex will do to you,” I mutter, and Rebecca grins.
But she’s not done talking. “And, lastly, I love the whole bunch of you! So why wouldn’t I feel like celebrating? I already feel victorious. Now go do your thing, and I’ll see you afterward. For queso and champagne, no matter what.”
Coach stands up and does a slow clap. “Hear, hear! Becca is full of wisdom tonight, boys. We have to do things a little differently tonight.”
“Like, score and stuff,” Castro grumbles.
“That would be nice,” Coach agrees. “But tonight is really about attitude. Whoever keeps a cool head will win this game. They’re gonna play dirty. They’re gonna chirp like insulting you is the newest Olympic sport. Don’t fall for it. Whoever stays out of the penalty box tonight gets first dibs on the queso dip at the party.”
A bark of a laugh escapes me. Who are these nutters, anyway?
Castro looks back at me and just shakes his head. “Fucking Dallas,” he says.
“FUCKING DALLAS!” the rest of the team yells back.
I crack up right here on the bench. And for a hot second, I feel like I’m in the right dressing room after all.
It gets weird again, though, when we skate out for the pregame ceremonies. I get chills as I’m hit with the familiar lighting and acoustics. Every stadium has its own vibe, and every team’s home is a little different. I spent so many years of my life right here.
God, the sweat I left in this building. In this city. When I left, I had some regrets. But it’s dawning on me that I don’t anymore. I earned a championship ring here, for starters. Who could regret that? And I can truly say that I gave Dallas everything I had.
Just like I gave Jordanna everything I had. That’s all a man can do. His best.
There’s no more time for epiphanies, though. We stand in two long rows while the announcer calls out the starting lineup, and spotlights zigzag across the freshly surfaced ice.
The fans go wild for every Dallas player, as they should. Then they provide a smattering of polite applause for my new teammates as the Brooklyn team is announced.
Until we get to me.
“Number 27, and formerly of Dallas, MARK TANKIEWICZ!”
I expected a little cheer, just because there have to be kids in the stands still wearing my jersey. But the place roars for me. It’s fucking deafening.
Whoa. I’d be a liar if I said it didn’t matter to me. The roof is shaking as these Dallas hockey fans spend a long minute recognizing my contribution.
I’m not going to forget this any time soon.
When I glance across the ice at Bart Palacio, though, he is not a happy man. Like it might kill him to admit that we did some good work on this ice together. After tonight, I do not have to put up with that prick for a nice long time. Now, there’s something to look forward to.
I put my hand on my heart for the national anthem. When I check Palacio’s face again, he looks murderous. It calms me down an iota, because I finally feel like I’m on my way back up. Bart has more to lose tonight than I do.
If I can just remember that for the next two hours, things might just shake out right.
The crowd quiets down as we get into position for the first faceoff. I love that first silence—when everything stops except the pounding of our hearts. The moment is pregnant with possibility. Anything could happen, and no mistakes have been made.
Then the ref drops that six-ounce hunk of rubber, and we all leap into action at once. Castro wins the faceoff, flipping the puck back to me, and I flip it to O’Doul, who moves up.
The game is a tight, dirty scrum from the first minute. Dallas goes right for the kill, unsparing with their sharp elbows and slashing sticks. There’s more cursing than on a naval submarine and more untempered testosterone than in an army battalion.
Keep your head down and skate fast, I coach myself.
Palacio isn’t having it. His role, apparently, is to get up in my face. “Smug little bitch,” he growls as I guard him. “Still got a limp dick? Didn’t see any coverage of you with the puck bunnies in Brooklyn.”
“Is that the best you’ve got?” Honestly, it’s not that hard to tune out his patter.
Trevi and Campeau battle it out, trying to make some opportunities. But—Jesus—Palacio’s snarling face is always in front of mine. And when I catch a pass from O’Doul, Palacio goes in hard. He slashes my ankle so egregiously that I shout in pain.
But I still get the pass off. And where is the fucking whistle? They don’t call a penalty. Fuckers.
When my shift is up, the trainer slaps some tape on the bleeding gash. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I grunt.
But when I take the ice again, it’s just the same. Palacio’s ugly mug is everywhere I turn. That’s when I start to get frustrated. I trip him, because I need to see how he looks spread-eagled on the ice.
Immediately, the whistle’s shriek pierces the air, and the door to the penalty box opens. Of course I’m given a two-minute penalty. Shoot me already.
O’Doul sprays me with ice chips as he comes to a stop beside me, and I brace myself for a tongue-lashing. “Remember the queso dip,” he says.
Wait, what?
“Settle down, okay? Just don’t fight him. That’s what he wants. We’ll kill this penalty and move on. Just settle.”
“Okay,” I grunt. Even if he’s not mad, I am. I glide toward the box, grumpy as a bear.
I don’t ever look at the crowd, because who has the time? But maybe it’s the red hair that catches my eye. Bess is basically tattooed on my subconscious at this point. And when I look up, we immediately lock eyes, as though my soul knew exactly where to find her.
I hadn’t even known she was coming to Texas, but she’s the only person I can pick out in a room full of eighteen thousand people. If that’s not a sign from above, then I don’t know what is.
And she gives me a big, happy smile, as if we’ve just run into each other at the cookie shop or in the park—someplace far away from here.
It calms me down immediately. Okay. Breathe. I give her a smile before sitting down on the bench. I watch the PK team give Dallas the runaround for a hundred and twenty long seconds. And I vault out of there the moment the door opens for me.
Then I’m back in the grind again, while Dallas takes cheap shots
wherever they can get ‘em. The game is sweaty and still scoreless.
I’m very careful not to draw another penalty, although Palacio does his evil best. When I skate into the corner to nab the puck, he’s right there on my ass. I get the pass off to Castro, but Palacio flattens me against the plexi with unnecessary force, somehow managing to grind his fist into my ribs.
The crowd cheers.
No whistle.
“Aw, honey, good hands,” I gasp, trying to get the oxygen back into my lungs. “But no nookie until after I win.”
He lets out an angry roar, but I feel strangely calm. The game isn’t over yet. Bess is here in Dallas, and Castro suddenly has a look on his face that tells a story. His chin lifts by a half an inch as the puck flies towards him.
Suddenly, I can just see how it’s going to go down. I picture Castro’s pass. And then I sense a low, perfect shot through the five-hole.
And I’m already in motion, feinting toward the blue line. Palacio’s body follows, shifting my opponent out of the way for Castro’s pass, which is coming right at me, just like I predicted.
I lower my stick toward the ice at the perfect angle, backhanding it toward the keeper’s skates. The goalie tries to butterfly over it, but it’s too late. The puck sails through his legs, and the lamp is lit before I even remember to blink.
It happened just like I planned. And for a moment, I’m too stunned to celebrate. Then the Dallas crowd roars its disappointment, and my teammates are grinning from ear to ear.
“FUCK YOU,” screams Palacio.
Fuck you, too! I say via a smile. As I skate back to the circle, I can see now how the game will play out. Palacio will be pissed, and the rest of the Dallas bench will be rattled.
“They’re gonna fall apart,” I say to O’Doul as we get into faceoff position again. “Watch.”
My team captain actually winks at me in response. A wink. Like we’re in some kind of Broadway musical.
The puck drops again, and everything spools out like I pictured it. Fine—like I visualized it. Doc Mulvey might know a few things.
I must be open to the fucking universe now, because I can see Palacio’s face getting redder on every play. And I can hear him dragging out every slur and taunt ever hurled across a span of ice.
“He just told me I’m like a tampon,” Trevi says as the ice girls do a quick cleanup during the media break. “Only good for one period.” He snorts. “Musta been saving that one up.”
“Yeah? He told me he’d seen better hands on a digital clock,” Baby Bayer says.
“Well, I got a Hispanic slur,” Castro says, guzzling his water. “He called me a beaner, and told me to go back where I came from. I told him—that’s Minnesota. And we’re playing there next month, so…” He shrugs.
“He’s flipping his shit.” Crikey chuckles.
“Nobody promised him any queso dip, obviously,” O’Doul adds.
“QUESO DIP!” yell two or three guys at the same time.
“Quiet, morons,” Coach says. He taps me between the shoulder blades to indicate that I’m up again. “Stay cool now.”
“Will do,” I promise. Because getting that goal past Palacio made staying cool a hell of a lot easier.
And now I have no trouble visualizing the scoreboard, because it keeps lighting up in our favor. We put four goals on it by the time we’re through.
Thirty-Two
Another Epiphany
Bess
When the buzzer goes off at the end of the Dallas game, Tank looks gloriously, transcendently happy. I hadn’t known his face could smile that wide.
The final score is 4-1 in favor of Brooklyn. That asshole Palacio managed to flick one past Silas in the third period, but it was still a major victory, and everyone in the increasingly quiet stadium knew it.
“Let’s hustle,” Becca says, tugging on my arm after the buzzer. “We have a party to set up.”
“You’re not going to stay and give a statement?” I ask.
“Nah. Georgia is handling it. The press doesn’t need to hear any posturing from the owner tonight. Let Tank have the last word. Besides, someone has to make sure the cheese is hot and the beer is cold.”
“I like the way you think,” her husband says. “This way, ladies. The car is waiting.”
I’m whisked to the Ritz-Carlton bar by the Rowley-Kattenbergers. The hotel staff fall all over themselves to serve Rebecca, so it takes shockingly little effort on our part to set everything up.
“I can’t believe you ordered these!” I say, holding up a napkin. It says: Congratulations! We knew you could make Dallas cry. “What were you going to do if we lost?”
“Put ’em back on the jet for the March matchup.” Becca shrugs. “But I didn’t have to, did I? Excuse me!” She waves down the hospitality manager. “Could you bring out about four times as much queso dip as I asked you for? I bragged about it to my hockey players, and we can’t let them down.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says sweetly.
I finish laying out the napkins, while Becca inspects the bar setup. “Well.” She claps. “This will be fun. I might run up to my room and fix my lipstick. They could be another forty minutes.”
“Go for it,” I encourage. “I’m going to check my email. You never know who’s having a weeknight calamity.”
After she flits off, I sit down on one of the comfortable banquettes that line our roped-off portion of the bar. It’s supposed to be comfortable, anyway. The sexy, red, lacy thong I bought myself is abrading my ass. Sexy undies are another thing—like heels and makeup—that make me feel like I lost my copy of the Girl Manual. When I’d waltzed into a Brooklyn lingerie shop yesterday and asked for something splashy, I’d simply gone with the salesgirl’s suggestions.
Boy, am I sorry now. Holding a strip of lace between my ass cheeks had sounded like a bad idea at the time, but I’d hoped it was one of those things that would make more sense after I tried it. Like avocado toast or Uber.
But no. That perky little salesperson had steered me wrong. Not only am I uncomfortable, but every time the lace pokes me in the fanny, it reminds me of the other reason I’d come to Dallas. To seduce my man.
He’d looked so wonderful tonight—confident and radiant. Like he’s finally found his footing. I can’t wait to congratulate him. And I wouldn’t want to do anything to dent that big smile.
I shouldn’t have come. No—that’s too harsh. I shouldn’t follow through with my Day 14 seduction. It’s not right to expect something that he may not be able to deliver. It’s not fair. Even if he never suspects.
So I won’t do it. We won’t have sex. He may not like that but…
A tiny, invisible lightbulb goes off over my head. On the way in, I’d seen a store in the hotel lobby. I can buy some condoms, like any other girl who’s planning for a little fun in a hotel bed.
God, why do I make simple things so complicated?
I spring up off the banquette—my panties abrading me again—and head for the lobby store. Five minutes later I have a three-pack of Trojans in my purse, and I’m feeling so much better about myself that it isn’t even funny.
In the lobby, I plop down to check my messages. There’s nothing much there, thanks to Eric, so I use some of my spare time for people-watching.
A couple walks in through the revolving doors, and I watch them pause to take in their surroundings. The man is carrying a sleepy, preschool-aged child, and when he spots the check-in desk, he turns to his wife. They execute a complicated handoff, because the little boy is floppy and tired.
His mama speaks softly to him as she carries him over to the sofa across from mine and sits down. “There we go,” she says, stroking his hair as she settles against the cushions.
He rolls, curling up into a sleepy ball on her lap, adjusting his head as if her thigh were a pillow.
They’re so cute that I’m smiling like a fool. He has copper-colored skin, and lush, dark eyelashes that brush his round cheeks as he dozes. And—this is the k
icker—he’s wearing a Dallas jersey over skinny black jeans.
And? The jersey says Tankiewicz.
My heart thumps a little faster, and I realize several things, one right after the other. First, there’s no joy greater than buying shrimpy clothing for shrimpy people. And shrimpy hockey jerseys are the ultimate item in my opinion.
Second, Tank must see little kids wearing the Tankiewicz jersey all the time. He’s probably been looking at them for years and wondering why he’s the only one in Dallas who doesn’t have a tiny Tankiewicz.
My heart starts to break for him all over again, but then I notice one more thing about this family. Mom and dad are white. And their child isn’t.
Another tiny, invisible lightbulb goes off over my head.
I must be staring, because the mom smiles at me. “He usually has a normal bedtime. We aren’t terrible parents, I swear. Once a year we get hockey tickets, and a hotel room for after.”
“Fun,” I say quickly. But I can’t take my eyes off her beautiful, sleeping child. “Could I…” I stop myself and try to figure out how to phrase the question. “Would it be terribly rude if I asked if he’s adopted?”
Her eyes widen and then warm. “He is. We adopted him in China when he was almost two. Traveling there to bring him home was the most amazing experience I’ve ever had.”
Now I have goosebumps all over my body. “Was it difficult to be placed with a child?”
“Yes and no,” she says. “You need lots of patience, because adoption is slow. There’s so much red tape, and it’s wildly expensive. So you have to be ready for all that. But I really liked the agency we worked with. Would you like their name?”
“I would,” I say slowly. Then I hand my notebook to the woman, along with my pen. She takes it and starts scribbling.
When he was almost two. My chills double down as it hits me. I became motherless at the same age, and then I’d grown up with people who hadn’t really wanted me. Aside from my brother, I’d been nothing but a burden on everyone in my life.
