I glance through the glass of the shopfront window and spot some sunflowers in a display.
“Do you think I could grab a sunflower from you? I mean, I get you aren’t actually open yet, but—“
“Here,” she says, pushing open the main glass door and reaching inside. “On the house.”
She passes me a long-stemmed sunflower, its petals as bright as the bunch I bought Reid last time.
“It’s perfect, thanks. Sorry, I didn’t get your name.”
“It’s no problem at all, and I’m Queanie.”
“Good to meet you, Queanie. Thanks again,” I say, and then I leave her to finish setting up the shop as I head to the rink.
When I get there, a few of the guys’ things are in their lockers already, but Reid’s are not, and the room is empty, so I take my chance and quickly slip the sunflower onto the small shelf at the top of his locker.
I pull on my training jersey, and thankfully it comes up high enough to conceal the marks Reid left, but if I shower here after practice, the guys are sure to spot them.
Meh, I’ll deal with that later. I’m on the ice early, but not as early as I normally am, and Kirkston and Colt have beaten me here.
“You have a rough night, rook?” Colt asks, while cutting the crease.
My smile is immediate.
“You could say that,” I reply, turning, but not before Kirkston clocks my expression and skates after me.
“That’s the smile of someone who had a great night, so who are they?” he asks, and I love the way he doesn’t assume it was a girl.
“Who’s who?” I ask, trying to sound indifferent, but he grabs my arm and spins me to face him.
“Did you go out after the party? Man, I wish I were twenty-two or twenty-three again.”
“I’m twenty-two, actually. Not twenty-three until December.”
He shoves my arm playfully.
“Still younger than me. I’m inching up to thirty. You know what they say, it’s all downhill from there.”
“Reid just turned thirty, and he’s the captain, so you’re full of shit.”
“Yeah, well, he won’t be captain forever. Gotta retire eventually.”
Colt skids to a stop, sending snow into the air.
“Don’t say the R word,” he warns, looking around the rink like there could be someone or something listening. “You’ll jinx us and the season’s just started.”
“How does the R word jinx us?” I ask.
Kirkston rolls his eyes and mouths, “It doesn’t.”
“A few years back, New York’s center was asked about when his captain might . . . R word, and the next game he did his knee, and that was the end of his career.”
“I’m pretty sure that had more to do with the guy spending every winter snowboarding down every mountain he could find, than something his center said in a press conference the week before.” I remember the game he’s talking about. It was a brutal injury, his whole lower leg bent the complete wrong way. I was sure the ref was about to puke right there on the ice.
“But how do you know for sure?” Colt asks, skating backwards, eyes wide.
I shrug, because what else can I do? Colt’s not as superstitious as some players, but who am I to risk Reid getting injured if there’s even the slightest truth to what he’s saying?
More voices draw my attention as the rest of the team skate onto the ice. Reid glances my way but turns his back the second his gaze meets mine, and my stomach sinks.
