Chapter 1
Heather
The third period of the hockey game has barely started, but my daughter, April, is already on her feet and pointing toward the far end of the arena with an outraged look on her face.
“Did you see that, Mom? We almost scored! The puck was right there, like this close!” She holds her finger and thumb about an inch apart. “I thought it was going in, for sure.”
“Close doesn’t count in hockey, sweetheart,” I say, smiling at the predictable groan I get in response.
She’s in full mega-fan mode and completely focused on the ice, with no appreciation for my motherly pearls of wisdom. At nine years old, she knows more about hockey than anyone I’ve ever met, and that includes my younger sister, who happens to be the social media manager for the Denver Aces.
“That shot should’ve made it.” She shakes her head and huffs out a short breath, looking like a disappointed little coach. “We can’t afford too many of those misses.”
She’s not wrong about that. The score has been tied at two points for most of the third period, and the Aces only have a few minutes left to pull off a win.
I’m not exactly the world’s biggest hockey fan, having been to all of three games in my life—and all three in the months sinceApril has become obsessed with the sport—but even I can tell there’s been a change in the crowd, like they’re getting ready to either start celebrating or rioting.
“Maybe we’ll make the next one,” I offer, nodding in the direction of my brother-in-law, team captain Noah Blake. “Noah is already lining up for another shot.”
“I hope he makes it, but…” She turns and gives me a conspiratorial look. “Aunt Margo says that hockey is all about the close calls. She says that’s what makes the actual goals so much more exciting. It’s like, the dramatics of it all.”
I snort, unable to hold back a laugh. “The dramatics of it all? Is that what Aunt Margo says, too?”
“No.” She flaps a dismissive hand at me, fully focused on the game again. “That part was from Mrs. Hendricks at school. She says I have a flair for the dramatics.”
“Mrs. Hendricks is a smart woman,” I say, only biting back my laugh when April gives me another annoyed look. “Oh, here they come!”
We both turn our attention back to the ice where the other team’s center has broken away and is making a last-minute play to break the tie. There’s a collective intake of breath all around us as the opposing center takes the shot.
“I can’t look.” April partially covers her eyes, but I can still see her peeking out between her fingers. “Is it… did it…”
The stands around us erupt into cheers at the last-second save by the Aces’ goalie, who reached down and blocked the puck with the kind of agility and lightning-fast reflexes that shouldn’t even be possible with all that gear and padding.
“He did it!” April is jumping up and down, tugging on my arm. “Parker is the best, isn’t he?”
“That was pretty amazing,” I admit. I might not get as excited about hockey as my daughter does, but I can still appreciate thekind of dedication and skill it takes to make the tricks they do on the ice look easy.
And April is right about Grant Parker being the best player on the ice right now. My sister Margo says he’s the best goalie in the league, hands down. Then again, my sources might be more than a little partial.
The action is moving back toward the other end of the arena, but my eyes are still fixed on Parker as he taps his stick against the goal post three times before dropping back down into position in front of the net.
I saw him do the same little move at the start of the game, then for the second and third periods too. It’s such a subtle thing that I hardly noticed the first couple of times, but now I can’t stop wondering what it means. Is it a good luck ritual? Something he always does?
I’m rocked by another cheer as my daughter bounces into me. “Mom, we won! Did you see that? That was a crazy goal right at the buzzer!”
“I saw, sweetheart,” I lie, feeling a twinge of guilt for paying more attention to the goalie than the rest of the game. “We should go meet Aunt Margo down at the lounge so we can congratulate Noah on the big win.”
“Yeah!” April is still bouncing on her toes, and I have no doubt she’ll be hyped up from the game for at least the next hour or two. “Do you think I can make it onto the news again?”
“What did the reporter call you last time? The youngest, most enthusiastic Aces fan she’d ever met?”
“Most spirited,” April says. “Not enthusiastic, Mom.”
“Oh, right. How could I forget?” I laugh and drape my arm around her shoulders as we walk down the bleacher steps toward the friends and family lounge where my sister will already be waiting for her husband to come out of the lockerroom. “Well, if you see any cameras in the lounge, let’s try to give the players a chance to speak first.”
“And if there aren’t any players talking to the reporters?”
“Then feel free to lay on the dramatics, sweetie.”
