We resume our hunt, and it’s good to focus on another client.
Later that day, though, my mom calls to tell me the date of Landon’s store opening so I know when to avoid that block.
I make a mental note of the day, then thank her.
Right. No looking back. No getting distracted. No bad decisions. Which means I should probably stop watching my hot neighbor—my client, my very important client—do yoga.
Fortunately, the bruise on my chin serves as a tender reminder.
I return to my couch, ready to focus, to draw up some plans. Then my phone pings with a message.
Ford: This is last minute, but I have some tickets to tonight’s hockey game. Want to go?
My chin says no, but my fingers sayHell, yes.
14
MY ASSASSIN PHASE
FORD
I ferry the puck down the ice, skates scraping, focused as a sniper. I dodge a giant New York defenseman, and in another second or two, I’ll slap this bad boy past the goalie.
If I can just find an opening, I can break this infernal tie. And I can do it with the gorgeous, clever, amusing redhead watching from the stands.
But Karlsson, the New York defender, strips the puck from me, then flashes a smug grin as he spins around. “Slippery hands, old man,” he taunts and races down the ice the other way.
“Fuck.” I don’t care about his insult—because fuck him, he’s always been like that.
I care about me. And that? That’s so not me.
I don’t lose my concentration because of fans.
I block out the noise. I block out trash talk. I block out everything.
But now I’m on my heels, chasing Karlsson as possession changes. I’ve got to get it back from that asshole. I can’t let a distraction interfere with my game.
No such luck though.
The shift changes ten seconds later, and I hop over the boards, irritated. Falcon claps me on the back. “We’ll get ‘em next time,” the defenseman says.
I nod, grabbing my water bottle. “We fucking will.” Shaking it off, I take a long, thirsty drink, trying not to look at center ice.
At the seats I got for Skylar.
I keep my gaze on the action, watching the opponents like I’m studying the penguins in that brain game I played earlier. The game that’s supposed to help me keep my focus when it matters.
Like, say, now.
But another voice says,Maybe just one look is fine.
Then I think of Leah and what she said earlier today:Your discipline is unmatched. But you don’t have to do extra to play at peak performance. You’re doing great as you are.
While my teammates battle by the boards for the puck, I give myself permission to do ten reps…by stealing a glance at center ice at last.
Skylar’s shouting, cheering us on, and—wait. Is she wearing a number fourteen jersey?
Holy shit. She is.
