“Yes, Coach.”
The puck slid toward our new goalie, Hansen, who’d taken over from Adam Kramer when he retired at the end of last season. Thankfully, both the coaching staff and Adam had wanted him to continue to be part of the team. So Adam now handled training and nutrition for our goalies, Hansen and Pedersen.
Coach looked over at me as the guys all took a quick breather. “I like her,” he said, tipping his head up toward Hana.
“How do you know?” I asked.
“We chatted while you were warming up. Smart woman. Brilliant, in fact.”
“She is.”
“Does she keep up with you on all that aerospace stuff?”
I smiled. “She’s where I learned it.”
Coach chuckled, nodded, and returned his focus to the game. “Sit. Rest. Hydrate. You’re back in three if I don’t see the rook producing.”
* * *
I putin another fifteen minutes on the ice during the third period, and it was rougher than the first. My ribs ached from the multitude of elbows I’d taken, but I’d managed another assist, this time to the rookie, who Coach had kept on the line, pulling Bonnie, our old-timer.
Bonnier, who we called Bonnie, was thirty-six and showing his age. He didn’t have the speed Stol or I did, but he was crafty, with a depth of knowledge about the game we hadn’t yet achieved. Still, it was becoming clear that Bonnie was going to have to hang up his skates, and soon. I hated the idea, just as I’d hated Adam choosing to retire. Change wasn’t really my thing.
I looked up at Hana after we’d shaken hands with the other team at the end. She was staring at me, so I mouthed, “Come down.”
She’d know I meant the locker room, as I’d had Ida Jane pass along the invitation to meet me there earlier. Now it was time to see whether Hana was open to more than the closure we’d begun to get this morning. If she came, I’d find out if she was interested in pursuing something new, better with me.
Hana bit her plump, pink lip, clearly hesitant. She leaned over toward Ida Jane and said something. Ida Jane nodded, and the two of them rose from their seats. The guys corralled me down the tunnel, and I didn’t see where the women went.
Two TV crews waited to talk to me about the game, and I did my best to show them the respect their viewers deserved, but all I wanted was to get into the shower and see if Hana was waiting. If so, I’d take her out for a late dinner, or maybe invite her back to my hotel room—no, bad idea. She’d think I wanted sex.
Which I did, becausesex, but now wasn’t the time for that. We needed to heal the breach I’d created between us and find a way to move forward with our relationship, whatever that would be.
Chapter8
Hana
Iinhaled a long, deep breath of the ice-tinted air as I looked around the arena. Fans were headed toward the exits while the shiny Zamboni made its first lazy circuit across the ice.
“This wasverydifferent than his high school games,” I whispered.
“It gets easier,” said Ida Jane, a petite woman with honey-colored hair and a bright smile, likely noting my growing discomfort. She’d introduced herself to me at the beginning of the game, putting me at ease as she told me stories about her husband, Maxim, and Naese, between cheering on the Wildcatters. She was fun and easy to talk to, and I was glad she’d said something because I’d been slipping into my head.
She stretched as we continued up the aisle to the concourse. “Come on. We’ll head down to the locker room. Silas—the guys call him Coach because he’s the head coach—usually lets us into his office. He travels with some high-quality cocoa. His daughter, Trixie, loves the stuff.”
“So we’re just going to take over his office while the guys get cleaned up and sip the coach’s hot chocolate?”
“Pretty much. Once the guys finish showering and interviews, they’ll come find us there.”
“But…” No, I didn’t have more to add to that statement.
After a beat, Ida Jane offered a shrug. “It’s a bit boring, but that’s the truth of being a professional athlete spouse.” She led me up the stairs and then down an internal flight. She flashed a badge at a security guard, who stood in front of some double doors.
“Do you have your pass?” Ida Jane asked.
“Oh!” I fumbled in my pocket, pulling out the paper Cruz had given me earlier. The security guard read it and opened the door, speaking into his walkie talkie. We headed down a noisier corridor, filled with reporters and players. The players were sweat soaked, some still holding their gear.
I gawked at the scene as Ida Jane led me toward a door at the end of the hall. She knocked, and Coach Whittaker told us to enter.
