“No.” Nick took the tea towel from GJ’s extended handsand wiped his on it. “You come and get me the next time you do something like that. If you get the contact cement from the hardware store I’ll fix the connections for you.
“I won’t have that.” GJ repossessed the tea towel, spun it a couple of times, and then, to my shock, snapped it at Nick’s butt. He yelped and rubbed the spot on his jeans pocket. “You get to practice and focus on stopping pucks, leave the plumbing stuff to us.”
“All right, all right.” Nick smiled. “I’ll focus on hockey.”
“Good.” GJ slung the towel over her shoulder and returned to tidying up the dish pit.
I walked Nick to the lobby. “Thanks for all of your help today.”
He smiled. “Let’s just say I have a soft spot for old people. I’ll see you later.”
“Nick.” I stopped him just as he was about to leave. “I’m sorry about the tea towel thing. That was so inappropriate. She’s just…”
He grinned and rubbed his very round, very muscular hockey player ass. “She’d have a great slap shot. My sister used to do that to me when we were washing the dishes. It must be a girl thing.”
I wanted to ask him more about his sister, but reminded myself that Nick Tinsel wasn’t my friend, he was a guest. A guest who, in one day, had rescued me from walking in a blizzard, and then saved the inn from a plumbing disaster. A guest who made my heart leap into my throat, and I couldn’t have that.
FIVE
NICK
Banging pucks ismy favorite thing to do. I didn’t start my career as a goalie. Like most kids, I wanted to be a forward. The star. The one leading the power play up the ice. It wasn’t until AAA when our goalie and the backup goalie got food poisoning and were both out for an away game. I stepped in and, as Coach said, I was a natural. It was fun being on the other side of the puck, staring down a player, trying to figure out their next move.
I was hooked.
But I missed skating. Coach Coalman and I have history, and because of that, he let me come in early and do just that—skate. I left my goalie skates and stick in the dressing room and put on regular skates to go out and fly.
The Chance Rapids arena was one of the old-school barns, and the smell of the cleaning solution and canteen popcorn brought me right back to my childhood. The lights were down low, and I couldn’t figure out how to put on music, so the only sound in the rink was the slicing of my blades into the hard ice. Growing up in the foster system wasn’t easy. After my parents died, I was one of the lucky kids who was placed in a good home, a home where myfoster parents believed in the power of sport—and the importance of it to keep kids out of trouble.
Over the years, hockey teams became my family. Some coaches took on father-figure roles, but Coalman was not one of them. He was tough and mean, but he got theW. He was my Coach for two years before we both moved on. I joined the Northern Professional Hockey League in upstate New York and he crossed the country to coach the Bobcats.
Steamy puffs from my exertion filled the air as I imagined deking around players and flicking the puck into the net.
I was deep into my practice session when the arena lights flickered on and voices started echoing across the ice. Pausing my shot, I glided around the net and watched as fans started filling the seats. The Coca-Cola clock next to the scoreboard read 1:20 and practice didn’t start until 2:00.
A kid wearing a Bobcats jersey—not the cool kind like Janie had behind the desk, a current version—ran at full speed around the boards to the Zamboni doors. “Nick Tinsel, can I get your autograph,” he shouted. His high-pitched voice was almost a squeal. The kid was excited.
The crowd kept pouring into the arena. What the hell was going on? Did people come and watch this team…practice?
I skidded to a stop and leaned on the boards. “How do you know who I am?”
The kid grinned. He was at that awkward stage where he was missing some teeth. “I know all the Bobcats. We’re so excited that you’re here. The last goalie…” He shook his head and grumbled like an old man.
He planted a glossy magazine next to my elbow and pulled a Sharpie from behind his ear. “I’ve got all of the team’s autographs, I just need yours.”
It was a Christmas Carnival magazine. I flipped through the pages, but it didn’t take long to get to the hockey section. Each player had their own page, and the kid had been busy—every player had scrawled their name in his book.
“You can sign on the old goalie’s page. You’re too new to be in this book.” He pointed to the page where the old number nine’s face stared out from behind his goalie cage.
The Laketown Otters were a popular team. We had fans, but none of them showed up hours early to watch us practice. I thought that GJ might have been an outlier, but the Chance Rapids Bobcats appeared to have a cultlike following.
“Sure, kid. What’s your name?” I bit the cap of the Sharpie and held it in between my teeth.
“It’s George.”
“What position do you play, George,” I asked through the cap.
“Left wing. I’m going to play in the NHL.”
