Page 81 of Lucky Puck

There are nods and words of encouragement and respect until Coach opens the door. “Press time. Jason, Sabe, let’s go.”

He turns and says over his shoulder, “You too, Brody.”

Following the others, I’m not looking forward to the firing line of the press, but at least Coach doesn’t allow the reporters into the locker room after the games, not usually. He reserves that kind of access for special occasions. Instead, the press gets full range of the hallway outside—the media pit—eschewing the official media room after games.

The split second I emerge into the pit, the shouted questions begin, along with flashing lights and multiple TV cameras pointed my way. This is crazy because Portsmouth has only one local news station covering sports.

It’s easier to answer the reporter’s question about why I stayed on the ice after my shift than it was to face Coach and my teammates. That’s at least partly due to spotting Bianca in the crowd and focusing on her kind face. My answer takes away the sting of the follow-up questions, like wasn’t it selfish, wasn’t it against the most important rule, am I a team player, do I think I’m more important than everyone else, and on and on.

My answers are predictable and sincere and less exciting than they’d hoped. They were looking for a fight, and I have none. I fall on my sword completely until it goes all the way through and comes out the other side. Considering I’ve been lanced so thoroughly, I feel pretty good.

Coach finally deflects reporters to Jason Hall as they get to the question about what the consequences are, what Coach is doing about it. It’s funny, but there wasn’t one question about my hat trick, and I don’t even care.

Jason and Sabien keep the reporters busy, especially Jason because he likes to talk, but Coach doesn’t dismiss me from the informal firing line, and I’m not about to budge until he does.

When Coach finally points to a widely respected senior reporter he considers reputable, the man asks the question I’ve been dreading.

“What are you going to do about Brody not coming off the ice?”

“He’ll be benched for the next game.”

The look on the reporter’s astonished face would have been comical if Coach’s words didn’t slice a fresh wound through my gut. The gasps and subsequent shouting of questions rose in a furor until the mob of press sounded like an army of monster bees buzzing furiously.

Coach doesn’t try to answer any of the follow-up questions while the media jostles and shouts. With a stern face, he nods at me, Jason, and Sabien, dismissing us. Following my teammates, we plow through the noisy throng, not stopping to answer questions.

When I spot Brooks, I follow my eyes to where she stands in a group outside the mob, close to the exit hall. She looks uncomfortable and yet deliciously sexy in my jersey.

“Let’s get out of here,” I say. Sabe and the others agree, and we move.

Jason tells Delaney and Emery to meet us at The Hole in the Wall, a small out-of-the-way dive bar for locals the team’s adopted as our unofficial hangout in Portsmouth.

Emery begs off. “I’ll see you at the fashion show.” She smiles, and it strikes me that Chase is a lucky man.

“I guess we’re going out before heading home,” I squeeze Brooks as we hurry through the garage to my car. “You don’t mind, do you?”

“Not if you don’t.”

That’s the right answer, but I shake my head and don’t tell her how much I mind, because truthfully, I’d love to go home with her and get lost in her soft, warm body and make love to her all night—or rather have sex. Shit. Since when did I think of sex as lovemaking?

“Is the place far? It looks like the others are walking.”

“We could walk, but I noticed you were wearing heels. You always wear heels, don’t you? You should invest in some comfortable sneakers.”

She laughs. “I’m short.” She shrugs as if that’s a good explanation.

“So what? You’re adorably short, and I find you to be a perfect size if you want my opinion.”

Her pleased expression gets interrupted by her phone blaring in the small space of the car’s interior, and she rushes to answer it as if my opinion made her uncomfortable. Which it did, judging from her pink cheeks. I could have sworn she looked pleased a second ago. Her sexy blush makes me squeeze the steering wheel with all kinds of regrets that we’re not heading home.

But she’s not mine, and I can’t treat her like she’s really my bride, can’t expect to make love—I mean have sex—with her at every possible opportunity like I hear newlyweds do. We’re pretending.

Although there’s nothing pretend about our sexual chemistry…

“Kat, where are you?”

Her friend answers loud enough for anyone in the small car to hear, me especially since I’m listening.

“I’m out in Portsmouth. I just finished my gig and saw that the Whalers won—congrats. Where are you?”