“Indeed.” Naomi’s eyebrow rose and fell like a gymnast. “And Gunnar’s reaction? He’s usually...wintry.”
“He was nice,” I admitted. “Like, really nice.”
“We noticed,” Ida Jane said.
“That’s why we came over,” Naomi added. “Gunnar finding a woman intriguing is…well, intriguing.”
We reached my seat, and I collapsed into the cushioned comfort with a grateful sigh. Ida Jane patted my shoulder. “We’ve all had our moments. I once called a ref something unmentionable into a hot mic.” She shrugged, her eyes narrowing. “He deserved it, but I didn’t like the way my behavior reflected on Maxim. That’s my husband.” She pointed toward the big Wildcatters D-man, who sat two rows in front of my seat, along with the rest of the team and their partners. I glanced at Lydia, but she was engrossed in a conversation with a celebrity player at the rink level. I sighed in relief.
“Enjoy the show—just don’t be the show,” Naomi said with a little finger wave.
I nodded. That woman’s confidence was something to aspire to.
“We’ll stop by this week. Break you out of the work prison,” she added. “Don’t worry, we have enough clout to make your jailer set you free for an afternoon.”
I couldn’t help laughing. Maybe my faux pas wouldn’t be a total disaster. It might not even destroy my evening—or my job.
Chapter 2
Gunnar
I stepped through the gate to the ice that one of the security guards opened for me and glided onto the rink with the ease of decades of practice. While I didn’t enjoy schmoozing, it was good press for my organization and the charities involved tonight when I was seen with the league’s commissioner. Plus, the locker room was likely a nightmare right now. The celebrities my marketing department had brought in for this event were weenies who had little respect for the game and probably too high an opinion of themselves. I pressed my lips together to keep from smirking—I knew what was coming. This game might not have the professional hits and physicality of a typical one, but we were all going to work hard. Excitement fizzed in my belly.
The roar of the crowd was a familiar symphony I loved more than just about anything else in the world. I might not have played at a professional level, but I’d taken part in enough games during my youth and college years to appreciate all aspects of the sport.
Getting out on the ice where my brother and I used to spend hours a day reminded me of better times, and of what I missed most in my life: my older brother, Karl. I still couldn’t believe he was gone. His loss tried to slam into my chest like a sledgehammer, but thoughts of the cola tsunami with Zaila—I’d caught her name as I tromped down the stairs—replayed in my mind, overriding the pain Karl’s passing always brought.
The pretty young woman, who hadn’t paid enough attention, had mentioned something about the Wildcatters to Naomi and Ida Jane. Hopefully she was involved with my team. We’d hired a new physiotherapist, and I wondered if it was Zaila, even if she handled cold beverages with the precision of a rookie goalie. I suppressed a chuckle.
Get it together, Gunnar. You’re the team owner, not a lovelorn teenager.
Thankfully, the puck dropped, pushing thoughts of the soda spiller and my absent brother from my consciousness. I was off like a shot—with something to prove to the guys I paid millions, who tonight were sitting in the stands. I felt spry, though I spent more time in a boardroom than on the rink. I’d spent the last fifteen years juggling my business so I could focus on what I wanted most: a hockey team Karl would have been proud to play for.
And I’d achieved that goal faster and with more success than I could have hoped for. In the process, I’d made community involvement and giving back to those in need a central part of the Wildcatters’ mission, which was why I was playing in this celebrity charity game tonight. The money from the event went to the cause closest to my heart: hate-crime prevention.
I snatched a pass meant for an agile celebrity chef and began my offensive maneuver.
“Evaldson’s got the puck! Can he still bring the heat?” the announcer boomed, his voice laced with manufactured excitement. I rolled my eyes. “Twenty-five years ago, our owner was a force on the ice.”
I grinned, dodging a clumsy attempt at a check from reality star Tiffany Caraway, who skated with the grace of a newborn giraffe. I threaded the needle through the other team’s defense, spotting my opportunity. A quick feint, a subtle shift, and wham—the net vibrated, followed by the eruption of cheers from the crowd.
Oh yeah, baby. Just like that! This middle-aged man still could score.
High fives and backslaps came from my teammates, but my eyes drifted toward the stands. Was Zaila impressed by my display of athletic prowess? I hoped she’d noticed my skating technique… Focus on the game. You’re supposed to be a role model, not a man looking to score with a woman half your age.
Okay, so she probably wasn’t half my age, but she had to be at least fifteen years younger, and that stung. I prided myself on delivering hard truths and taking the time not to react, but to process and decide. There shouldn’t be any confusion here. Zaila was young. She was beautiful and fresh and not for me.
Thankfully, the rest of the first period was a chaotic mix of flying pucks and near-misses. Then the Zamboni driver had to brake hard to keep from running over the celebrity chef when he headed back onto the ice too soon.
During a brief respite on the bench, I scanned the crowd yet again, pretending to adjust my helmet as I sought Zaila. The young woman had burrowed into my consciousness after a simple look into her sherry-colored eyes. Panic set in as I couldn’t find her. I wanted to talk to her again…more…
Stop it, Gunnar.
Back on the ice for the second period, I vowed to channel my inner hockey star and ignore all thoughts of the beautiful woman who’d spilled her drink on me. But try as I might, Zaila kept popping into my head. I wondered if she thought I was too forward. Or maybe too friendly. I wasn’t known for my easy, chatty manner. Perhaps the soda-stained jersey turned her off…
The whistle shrieked, jolting me back to the present. Before I could react, a linebacker on skates—or, more accurately, Bradley Dunbar, who’d starred in a few subpar action movies back in the ‘90s—bore down on me with the force of a runaway freight train. I sidestepped just in time, avoiding a collision that would probably have sent me straight to the physical therapist’s office. Oh wait, maybe Zaila was the team’s new physiotherapist. Maybe I should let Brad hit me.
“Close call for Evaldson,” the announcer boomed through the speakers. “Looks like he’s dodging more than just pucks tonight, folks.”
