A dumb smile spreads across my face. I look down, so it’s not obvious to everyone. Best if I look fierce, angry, glowering.
Then I read the words on my water bottle one more time before the shift change.
Surprise Them.
My mantra since I surprised the whole damn league by sticking around when no one thought I’d make it to the pros.
When it’s time for the next line change, I hop over theboards with Bryant and Falcon, locking in. New York barely sees it coming when Falcon strips the puck from their forward and flicks it to Bryant.
I am nothing but concentration as Bryant flings it my way.
I assess their goalie, watching as he sets up for me to bite on the slap shot. Then, at the last second, I switch to a wrist shot.
It slips right through his legs. He’s…surprised.
The crowd roars, and Bryant bumps my chest. “You old dog. Youcanlearn new tricks,” he says.
“Right. I learned that from you,” I say, but I can’t even be sarcastic. We’re ahead now, and all I want is to keep it that way.
This time, I don’t fight the impulse.
Because focus isn’t about fighting distractions. It’s about not letting them get the better of you.
And Skylar, cheering me on in a jersey with my number? That’s not something I want to miss.
I tip my forehead in her direction as she cheers louder. The woman next to her leans in and whispers something in her ear.
Skylar just smiles and keeps cheering.
And we keep winning.
When the game ends and my teammates cheer and high-five, I glide past center ice, mouthing to her, “Nice jersey.”
She gives a sassy pop of her hips. “This thing? Found it in a discount bin,” she shouts.
I laugh. She loves to knock me down a peg.
And you love it when she does that.
The thing is, I really do.
Shame I didn’t make plans with her for after the game.But I dismiss that thought. We’re…neighbors. Sort of friends. Definitely working together.
There’s no need to make plans.
But I’m not annoyed one bit when I let Zamboni into the yard later that night to do her business and see Skylar across the fence with Simon running in circles.
The trouble is, Skylar’s staring at her phone, her brow furrowed in tight concentration. Her lips are a ruler.
I strain to listen to whatever she’s watching and catch a man’s voice through the speaker:“We’re just so grateful that she was so supportive, and how the universe has brought us together to open our dream board game store.”
Skylar looks up, livid. I don’t know what’s on that video, but whatever it is, it just ruined her night.
I want to jump over the fence and comfort her. Instead, I step closer to the four-foot-high wooden fence that separates our yards, resting a hand on top of the painted wood, Zamboni parking herself dutifully at my feet.
“What’s going on?”
Skylar flinches, then looks up from her phone. With a frown, she stabs the screen, ending the video. “Just my ex,” she says with a shrug like it’s no big deal. She shoves the phone into her pocket. “It’s fine.”
