by Avery Flynn
He paused outside the locker room and prepared himself for what he'd hear inside. Barbs over his sappy behavior in the interview; everyone had promised to DVR it with this goal in mind. Never mind that he wasn't the only one on the team whose life changed over the summer. He'd never been surrounded by so many men in love, yet there was a strong possibility that his failure to land the woman he loved would end up the butt of an inappropriate joke.
Whatever. Best to get it over with.
Coop noticed the silence the second the door cracked open. Right on the heels of that thought, he realized he hadn’t passed a single person on the way there.
“What the fuck?” he said, walking all the way inside.
The entire room was empty. He knew he had the schedule right, so had his clocks messed up? Not likely, since his clock was on his cell phone.
Not knowing what else to do, he headed past the empty showers for the locker area. Once he turned the corner, he saw all the usual things. Benches. Jerseys hanging in preparation for the game. A few plastic trash cans. Helmets and other gear on overhead shelves.
On his part of the bench sat one of those folded paper fortune teller, where you stuck your fingers inside four different points and opened a flap for the fortune.
Heart pounding, he set down his bag and lifted the childhood game. Savannah had loved doing this when they were kids. He put his fingers inside, keeping it closed, and read the question written outside.
“Do you love me?” he read aloud.
Smiling, he found the flap for yes and opened it. It was a colored drawing of a very simple ice rink with a red X in the middle.
Cooper strode out of the room and entered the hallway that led to a dark rink. But his focus wasn't on that yet. He was surrounded by reprints of photographs. They were all over the walls. A collage of him and Savannah through the years.
He chuckled to himself all the way through, trying to take in every picture, but suddenly anxious to see what waited for him on the other side.
At the end of the hallway, confusion settled in. It was pitch dark in the arena except for the EXIT signs, which for obvious reasons couldn't be shut down. After what felt like an eternity, a spotlight clicked on and fell center ice.
Savannah stood all alone, looking angelic with her long hair curled and draped over one shoulder. She wore slim, fitted pants in a cool blue shade paired with a loose green top, and for warmth, wore a lavender cardigan.
Her fingers fidgeted around a microphone that she brought shakily to her glossed lips. “I’ve only had a few hours to plan. This was way more elaborate in my head last night. And with traveling and everything else, would you believe I forgot to write the song?”
He grinned. “What song?”
“The one where I tell you how much I love you and can’t live without you for a single second more.”
“Sounds romantic.” Cooper stepped flat-footed on the ice. Only his years of practice kept his sneakers from sliding out from under him. “We can put a pin in this if you’d like more time.”
“We’ve lost too much time already, don’t you think?”
The closer he drew, the louder his heart beat in his ears. He wished he'd put on his skates because then he'd already have her in his arms.
“I have a serious question for you,” she said.
Two more spotlights switched on, and two of his teammates skated out from opposite corners holding up large signs. One with a Yes and one with a No. Both with boxes under the options. He had no idea which guys was behind the signs and didn't much care. Not with Savannah lowering carefully to her knee on the ice.
She extended a hand, and pinched in her fingers was a green plastic ring with a gigantic blue diamond on top. “Cooper Banks, will you marry me?”
Cooper had assumed the question was coming but was too stunned by her offering to answer right away. “Are you proposing to me with a ring pop?”
She turned sheepish, and her cheeks turned a gorgeous rose shade. “There once was a time when you couldn’t resist them.”
“When I was eight.”
“I’m hedging my bets.”
He laughed and scanned the two possible answers now on either side of her. "I suppose you want me to check a box."
He was close enough now that she was able to toss him a huge black marker. “Check No and I’ll run back home and die an old maid never to love again. Check Yes and you’ll never get rid of me. Not ever.”
Cooper stopped in front of her and that ridiculous ring sucker. He couldn't strip his gaze from her expression, which reflected the solid joy encapsulating his heart and soul.
The silence broke in a wave of stomps, claps, and chants of Yes. Yes. Yes. That was when he realized where everyone had gone to. The entire team and then some from the sound of it. Most likely Josh too, which made him that much happier. Everyone he cared about was there to see the best moment of his life.
“Well?” she asked, her voice quivering into the microphone and echoing back at him from the sound system. “Are you checking yes or no?”
With a smile he felt from ear to ear, he checked under the yes to an applause that took over the arena.
Cooper reached for the woman he loved. She squealed as he helped her up and swept her off her feet.
“I’m definitely checking yes,” he said, then kissed her.
His eyes were closed when the lights began to come on, cutting the moment too short. He could stand there kissing his fiancée—fiancée—all day and night. All year.
Savannah, chuckling, swung her legs and pulled out of the kiss. “One more thing,” she whispered. She must have turned off the microphone because there was no hint of sound coming from the speaker system. “Look around.”
Cooper scanned his surroundings in the fresh light, and for half a second he wasn’t aware of the differences. Then again, he was already accustomed to the film crews and cameras and onlookers. He’d known there was an audience, but…
“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” he asked. Not accusing, but worried. Her parents, the entire state of Georgia, everyone would see the spectacle she’d created for him. The proposal was going to end up all over the Internet.
“Of course I do, you goon. Now the world will know how much I love you too.”
About the Author
MISTY D. WATERS lives with her family in Maryland. When she isn’t snuggling with contractions, abusing her muse, or random dancing, she writes science fiction thrillers as M.D. Waters.
Her first novel ARCHETYPE was nominated for a RT Reviewers’ Choice award, on the Texas Library Association’s 2015 Lariat Reading List, listed on Popsugar.com’s The Best Books of 2014, and voted “Best Sex” by the A.V. Club’s Pages Most Likely to Succeed: Our Favorite Books of 2014 (so far). Her other works, ANTITYPE & PROTOTYPE, are available now.
More from Misty
Archetype
Antitype
Prototype
GEMINI’S EDGE - A Novella
Available in Hardcover, Paperback, eBook and Audiobook.
Amazon
Penalty Box Blues
by
Robin Kaye
1
When the Idaho area code popped up on Stryker Gyllenhaal’s iPhone he knew Karma Kincaid was calling in his debt. The only thing that surprised him was that she’d waited two days to call.
Two days was a lifetime in Karma’s world.
Two days since his hockey team, the New Orleans Cajun Rage, beat the scourge known as the New York Spartans and won The Cup in the seventh game of the series.
It had been two days, and the fact that they’d won The Cup hadn’t yet sunk into his thick skull. Maybe it was because he still hadn’t recovered from the hangover, not to mention the bruises from all the hits he took in that last killer game.
And it had been two days since he awoke in a cold sweat remembering the deal he’d made with Karma.
He slid his finger over the screen and tapped the speaker icon. “Karma Kincaid, wha
t a surprise.”
“Is that a hint of sarcasm? You’re just lucky I waited this long to call. So, since you’re probably tired of hearing all the congratulatory crap, I won’t bore you with it. I gotta tell you, though, business at Humpin’ Hannah’s has been amazing since The Rajun Cajuns made the play-offs. Thanks for that and for waiting until the seventh game to win The Cup. It gave me the full series to make bank, and then we had a Fill the Cup Party to celebrate your win. Ka-ching.”
“Yeah Karma, you know, the guys and I planned to string out the Series until game seven just with you and your bank account in mind.”
“I thought so.”
Her laugh, crisp and deep, rang through the phone. A picture of Karma took shape in his mind, her blonde, curly hair flying everywhere like a hot Medusa, her bright green eyes snapping at him. Yes, Karma’s eyes actually snapped and got scary when she was pissed, and a pissed off Karma Kincaid was to be avoided at all cost.
“Stryker! I’m so stoked. Having our hometown boy, The Enforcer, bring The Cup to Boise and Humpin’ Hannah’s is going to be epic. I have visions of dollar signs and free press dancing in my head. And at the risk of increasing your already overinflated ego, I have to admit that you were pretty amazing all season—which, when you think about it, is not surprising. After all, I only back winners.” Karma paused, and he could almost see her winking. “I have awesome instincts.”
“Are those compliments I’m hearing? From you? Impossible.” He wondered if she was punking him. Karma had never, in all the years they’d known each other, ever complimented him or anyone else that he could remember. “Have you had a personality transplant? Or was it a lobotomy?”
“Hey.” She let out a huff that meant she was probably blowing the hair out of her eyes in exasperation. She would have hit him if he were within striking distance. “That’s not fair. I always compliment people when it’s deserved. Can I help it if compliments are rarely deserved?”
Karma would have made a hell of a coach. She’d ridden his ass all through college. Okay, she’d ridden his ass since that day in their first semester freshman year when she found him getting hammered after his coaches had benched him for failing all his midterms. He’d had a failing grade in every class but Gym and Freshman Seminar. Karma must have missed having her brothers to run roughshod over, so from that day forward, she made Stryker her own personal pet project.
Karma had never let him get away with squat. She hadn’t let him skate through classes in the hope that the professor was a hockey fan and would give him a C to keep him playing. No, Karma—or her rich Grandfather—funded a tutor, Trish Reynolds, who’d taught him enough to pass his classes on his own. He’d stuck with the little drill instructor all through college and she’d kept the NCAA and his coaches off his back about his grades, kept him on the ice and in a position to be seen by the scouts, and it hadn’t hurt that he’d ended up learning enough to get by even after his hockey career. He’d always thought the promise of giving Karma a week of his time—if his team ever won The Cup—in exchange for tutoring, and anything else Karma had to do to get him over the NCAA 2.0 GPA minimum, would be worth it. Now that it was time to pay up, he wasn’t so sure. He had to hand it to Karma though—she’d scored the hat-trick of a lifetime. What were the odds of a failing college freshman hockey player making a pro team, getting into the finals, and winning The Cup? Ten million to one? He’d bet Trish Reynolds could figure it out without a calculator.
“You know what this means, Stryker. I own you for a week and you have to spend your one day with The Cup right here, in Boise, at my kick-ass bar. I’ve been busy calling all my media contacts and I’ve started planning. I just need to know the date we have The Cup so I can firm up the schedule.”
He couldn’t help the groan that escaped. “I have The Cup July 29th. It’s a Saturday.”
“Fabulous. I’d like you to fly in no later than the 22nd, and your first day of freedom will be July 30th. Text me the dates you’d like to fly in and out of Boise, and I’ll make the reservations.”
“Those dates are fine.”
“Are you sure? I’m going to keep you really busy that week so it’s not as if you’ll have time to spend with friends—except me, that is. You do realize that when I say I own you, I’m not joking.”
“Not a news flash, Karma. I do know you.”
“Why don’t I get you an open ended ticket? After all, it’s the off season, it’s not as if you have anywhere else to be, is it? No girlfriend or significant other?”
“I had no idea you were interested.” Sweat prickled on his forehead. Shit. He liked Karma—always had, but not that way.
Karma cleared her throat. “Really, Stryker? Did you just ask me if I was interested in you?”
“You’re the one who brought it up.”
“Ewww. No. It’d be like sleeping with one of my brothers. Seriously, talk about a high ick factor.”
Thank God. “Then why’d you ask?”
“It’s important information for the week of media I’m planning. Besides, if you’re involved with someone, I might have to rethink the whole bachelor auction idea.”
He groaned. Again.
“No, I’m not involved with anyone, and no, I’m not doing a bachelor auction. No way in hell. Remember we said that you’d own me—within limits. A bachelor auction is beyond my limit.”
Karma let out an exasperated grumble. He could envision her eyes snapping like towels in a middle school locker room. “Fine. No bachelor auction. What about the Humpin’ Hannah’s Hunks Calendar photo shoot?”
“As long as I’m not expected to pose naked.”
“Well shit, Stryker. You can stand behind The Cup, can’t you? It’s not as if anyone will be able to see anything. Will they? I mean, I know you’re a big guy and all, but The Cup should cover up most of your rod and tackle, right? And if not, there’s always Photoshop.”
“Karma.”
“So,” She continued, ignoring the growl that made professional hockey players quake in their skates, “You can stay at the apartment over The Three French Hens, our shop. I know your penchant for privacy and avoiding the press so you’ll love it. No one will know where you are except for us. Oh, and you’re going to have to get over that little problem you have with the press for the week that you’re mine. You know that, right?”
“I know.” His stomach already burned with dread.
“You can stay as long as you want. The apartment has been empty since Mary Claire got married.”
“Mary Claire got married?” The third of the Three French Hens. There was Karma—his present nightmare, Trish Reynolds—the smartest woman he’d ever known and a born librarian, at least that was the way she’d dressed in college, and Mary Claire—who was… nice in an artsy fartsy kinda way. Mary Claire wore more paint than makeup and always wafted the distinct aroma of eau de turpentine.
“You remember Jack Bennett from high school, don’t you? He came home from Germany last year and talked Mary Claire into marrying him on Christmas Eve.”
“Marriage?” Stryker felt the familiar zip of an electric shock skitter up his spine. Marriage: the other item on Stryker’s no-way-in-hell list. It was a short list. He avoided both the press and marriage like Indiana Jones avoided snakes. In his experience, the press did nothing but look for the next sports scandal, the next salacious tidbit, and the next new and better way to ruin a player’s life and career. Thus far, he’d excelled at avoiding both items on The Short List as he called it. He didn’t date. Sure, he hooked up with women, but he made it a point to never ask one out. As for the press, he never opened his mouth except to answer game questions for which he’d memorized safe, canned, innocuous responses they didn’t want to hear. Unfortunately, that wasn’t going to work for Karma’s version of Hell Week. He’d have to actually talk to the press for a full week and do whatever else Karma planned for him, because not only was Karma scary when pissed, she was just a little bit evil too. In other words, he was completely
and utterly pucked.
“You have to do it.” Karma sat and threw her jean-clad leg over the arm of the couch she’d just helped carry into The Three French Hens. She inspected her favorite cowboy boots—they were red with bold black stitching, and she loved them with all the enthusiasm with which a flat-chested thirteen-year-old loved her first padded bra. Shit, her brand new boots already had a scuff on the toe.
“I don’t have to do a damn thing.”
Trish stood directly in front of Karma, hands on hips, feet spread shoulder-width apart, eyes squinting, and nostrils flaring. She looked and sounded like she wanted to throttle Karma which was nothing out of the ordinary, so she wasn’t at all worried.
“I may be your partner in The Three French Hens, but Humpin’ Hannah’s is all yours, girlfriend.”
Karma refocused on the matter at hand and took in Trish’s shimmering dark eyes. Trish’s eyes always watered when she was over-the-top pissed. Karma would say she was crying but Trish claimed overactive tear glands. Potato, po-tah-to.
“Come on, you have to admit you’re the perfect person to handle Stryker Gyllenhaal. You know him better than anyone. Hell, you personally tutored him through almost every class he ever passed in college. You’ve spent more time with the man than any human, without the need for helmets and skates.”
Trish looked as if she were about to hyperventilate. Her already pale skin whitened even more, her dark eyes went from large to huge, and her thick mane of blue-black hair only added to her Night of the Living Dead look.
“You have to be joking. You want me to be his—” Trish’s hands flailed and she cleared her throat before swallowing as if she’d inhaled half a hot dog in one bite without chewing, “—his h-h-handler? For a week?”
Curiouser and curiouser. Karma’s Spidey sense went off like a car alarm. “Yes, you have to. I’m going to be too busy dealing with everything on my end—the golf tourney, Humpin’ Hannah’s Boise River Float Party, and everything else in my media bag-o-goodies on top of running the bar itself. Which reminds me, do you have any idea where I can get a realistic looking penalty box built for the bar?” She looked up from the notes she’d made on her iPhone to Trish’s blank face, which was turning slightly blue around the lips. “Hmmm…” Karma made a note to ask Trish again after she got over the apparent shock. Maybe next week.
