Page 7 of The One Timer

The way she says it makes me defensive because they’re not like that. “They’re a well-off family, but they’re very nice. Same as Mrs. Whittier.”

“If you say so. I still say you ought to go for all the gusto the night has to offer. Think of it as your Cinderella night—except definitely stay until the morning. None of that turning into a pumpkin at midnight shit.”

“Right. I’ll wait and turn into a pumpkin at six a.m. because that’s when I’d have to leave for work—at Mrs. Whittier’s, his grandma’s place.” The best job I ever had, hands down.

Not only does she pay me well, but Mrs. Whittier is the sweetest, most appreciative, and supportive boss I’ve ever had. The last thing I want to do is disrespect her.

Maybe I’m old-fashioned, but having a one-night stand with her cherished grandson—jumping his bones—seems somehow...all wrong...

“I’m going to hell,” I say, “because if I have a chance, I’m going for it.”

“Now, you’re talking,” Merry says. “Go for an all-nighter with Prince Charming—aka ‘Hockey Hunk’ Chase.”

A rush of heat floods me everywhere. “But⁠—”

“No more buts. Just promise to call me later tonight and let me know you’re okay⁠—”

The arena lights go out, and spotlights come on. A man’s voice blares from every speaker, and music pumps in a low beat, building to a crescendo.

I clutch Merry’s arm, adrenaline bursting into my system like I’m about to play the game myself. “The game is starting.”

“I can tell. Go for your night of nights, Cinderella.”

Pulling her to a stand with the rest of the crowd, I bounce up and down on my feet, clapping and screaming along as the teams are introduced. Unlike everyone else, I reserve my wildest applause for Chase Whittier, star wing for the Whalers, jumping and yelling with abandon even as I get a few side-eyes from the Brawlers fans surrounding us.

“Looks like we’re surrounded by the enemy,” Merry mutters.

Chapter Three

CHASE

Standing my ground at my spot on the faceoff circle, I lean in. It’s my first shift, and to make a good first impression, I throw a surreptitious elbow at the Brawlers defender, trying to muscle me out of position.

Under my breath, for his ears only, I say, “Stop bothering to fuck with me, old man. We both know I can bench press you and everyone else on your line combined.” His eyes flicker, and then he grins. It should feel disloyal to trash-talk my opponent when they’re the Boston Brawlers, but if I’m honest, I feel like a fucking badass.

It’s the first time we’ve faced the Brawlers this season. The Brawlers were my team, all the while growing up ever since I can remember.

It’s funny how easy it’s been for me to sweep away all those years of being a Brawlers fan the second I put on my Whalers jersey and became an official NHL player. The only thing I feel playing against the Brawlers now at the Garden is fucking amazing.

The puck drops, and I’m ready for it when it slides my way. I pass it up to Sabien, who weaves to the blue line around a Brawler defender and catches my puck. On the fly, I race past the blue line while he circles to avoid the second defenseman. When he passes me the puck as I skate in front of the net with a Brawler on my hip, as soon as the puck hits my stick, I flip it up over the goalie as he goes down to defend low.

The red light flashes, and my teammates erupt as I fall in a tangle with a Brawlers wingman. Shit, I’m looking at Ryan-fucking-O’Rourke, my idol all through high school, as he scowls back at me. Rafe Lemare from my team—a former teammate of Ryan’s—helps us both up, and I take the gloved pats on my head, the sticks tapping my pads, and the whistles from my teammates.

“You’d think I never scored a goal before,” I say as we skate to the bench. But I’m grinning so wide I’m worried my face will crack because this one is special. My first goal in the vaunted Garden, the cathedral of hockey, the nirvana of my youth, and the setting for all my hockey daydreams.

Hopping over the boards to the bench, I automatically look up to the family’s seats, where Gran should be sitting, and I see the mystery girl standing, arms raised, cheering wildly with her friend and no one else. And she’s staring back at me with the same ridiculous grin I’m wearing. The air gets sucked from my chest like someone stomped on it.

It’s wild that I feel a connection to a stranger who’s no more to me than any other fan in the building and only different in her enthusiasm for the Whalers—for me.

It’s worse than wild—it’s flat-out crazy. I turn away and settle on the bench, squashing the impulse to wave at her. I’m fucking glad I’m not that far gone.

Sabien collapses next to me. “What a fucking rush. We’re going to kill these guys.”

Turns out he’s right. He gets a goal, and I’m on fire, getting two more in the third period, the winning goal, and then my third goal into the empty net for the hat trick.

“This calls for a celebration,” Sabien says, punching my shoulder.

Coach Spencer Logan, who, despite the fact he’s halfway across the locker room, looks up with the unmistakable expression of a man who’s heard something he doesn’t like.