Her eyes flare, and I know she caught the unintended innuendo.
“Can we start over? Forget about the pic?” I ask.
She nods. “Of course. It was an honest mistake.”
I nod back. “Thanks for not sending it to the tabloids.”
She smiles. “It was touch-and-go for a hot minute, but my fear of karmic retribution won out.”
I return the smile. “Well, it’s good to know which way your moral compass points.”
I motion for her to sit back down, and we retake our original places.
“So where were we?” she asks.
“I think you were going to vaccinate me against trash talk or something?” I say.
Her brows furrow a second before she understands. “Ah, inoculate. Right,” she says. “We were talking about stress inoculations.”
I bite back a comment about being fine with that as long as I don’t have to take it in the ass. That would only send the conversation spiraling back in the wrong direction. As it is, the thought alone has me wondering if the doc likes anal.
God damn it. I need to get laid.
Chapter 9
Gray
A few weeks ago, I didn’t expect to be sitting on my couch on a Tuesday night with a glass of wine, waiting impatiently for the NHL season to start, but here we are. Celena came over for support.
There’s a minute and a half to puck drop, and my knee bounces uncontrollably so the wine in my glass threatens to slosh over the edge. Celena finally puts a hand on my knee to hold it down.
“Relax, lady,” she says. “You’d think you yourself were playing with how nervous you are.”
“I have no idea why I’m this anxious,” I say. “I’ve only been working with Ash for about a week and a half, so I don’t expect anything has changed with him, but who knows.”
“It will be fine,” she says. “Do you even know anything about hockey?”
I shrug. “I’ve been watching YouTube videos about the rules, but I assume I’ll pick up more as we watch the game. I’m counting on the announcers to explain what the hell is happening.”
“Icing is a thing, right?” she asks.
“Yeah, it has something to do with sending the puck down the other end of the rink, but I’m sketchy on the details,” I say before taking a healthy sip of my wine. Tonight I’m drinking a right-bank Bordeaux red.
The players line up at center ice, and I lean forward.
“What number is he?” Celena asks.
“He’s seventeen,” I say, “but he’s not out yet. They play in shifts, and he said the coach was still deciding whether to put him at second or thirdline. He won’t be starting regardless.”
Celena looks at me blankly. “Okay.”
“They only stay on for like a minute at a time or something crazy like that, then they switch off with the next shift,” I explain. “Hockey has unlimited substitutions. Ash told me he was almost always first line before his trash talk issues started, but the coach has him playing further back until he gets a handle on the problem.”
Celena nods, but it doesn’t look like she fully understands. I only barely understand it myself.
On TV, the referee drops the puck and the players all surge into motion. The other team gets control first, and I struggle to follow the little black puck. Hockey is a fast game, and my eyes aren’t used to the speed of the action yet. I read that goalies often warm up their eyes before a game by looking back and forth in preparation to track the puck.
About a minute later, the action stops for a penalty.
