SWNOVELS Pucking Sweet: Chapter 12
I’m still fuming as I part with Claribel down in the tunnels. She’ll stay near the ice to get some behind-the-scenes footage. Meanwhile, I have to hike to the top of the arena to sit in a stuffy suite and chat up industry reps. I’ve got to get my head on straight. I’m about to spend the whole of this first game schmoozing a bunch of potential brands, looking for more endorsement deals. But all I can think about is Lukas Novikov and his stupid caramel eyes!
Oh, he thinks he’s sooo funny sending me those silly contracts. And positively charming…and devilishly handsome. How could he not, when the collective universe seems ready to bust through a thick wall of plexiglass trying to get to him?
What is his problem that he refuses to take any of this seriously? Clearly, he doesn’t know about the email I received from Mark Talbot’s office on Friday, asking for a rundown on all the press related to each player. I wouldn’t be surprised if Mark is doing early calculations for the upcoming trade window, trying to decide who to keep.
Well, I’m no expert in hockey stats, but from the PR angle, Lukas Novikov screams trade. The folder we’re putting together on him is a hot mess of articles about his constant partying, the on- and off-ice fights. The man has been banned from two Vegas casinos. Oh, and he once pulled a prank that resulted in a small arena fire and a totaled Zamboni.
Rachel’s truck full of balls is starting to look like child’s play. Luckily, she was a good sport about it. She’s a really cool girl. Nothing like what I expected. I’ve met some musicians’ kids before, and they’re all a bit too “the moon is in the ninth house, let’s do ’shrooms and talk about the multiverse” for me. But Rachel is smart and funny. For the most part, she ignores the players who try to get too flirty with her.
Except for Jake Compton. That man is making no mystery of the Olympic-sized torch he carries for her.
Okay, this is actually helping. Don’t think about Lukas and his Texas-sized ego. Think about sweet Jake Compton, and his inappropriate crush on his doctor…
I stop in the middle of the concourse, gripping tighter to the strap of my leather shoulder bag. “Oh, sweet cheese and crackers.”
Jake Compton has a wildly inappropriate crush on his treating physician, an internationally famous rock star’s daughter. If that gets out—or if they start fooling around in secret and that gets out—it’s going to be a PR nightmare.
I take a deep breath. “One crisis at a time, Poppy.”
For now, Lukas Novikov remains my primary PR concern.
First period is well underway, and the Rays look amazing! They’re skating hard against Carolina. We’ve had a few good shots on goal, but nothing has gone in yet. The crowd is electric. There’s a sea of teal jerseys swaying and cheering as all the new Rays fans practice the wave. It’s really wonderful to see the way the guys are being embraced by the League.
I’m distracted from chatting up the Bauer rep when I hear the screams and boos of the Carolina fans. “What happened?” I sit forward in my seat, nearly tipping my gin and tonic off the ledge.
“Carolina just got a penalty,” someone replies from the row behind me.
“Is Number Three okay?” the woman next to him asks.
My heart leaps in my throat. “Number Three” is Colton Morrow. My gaze darts from the Jumbotron back to the ice. I exhale as I watch Colton get to his feet. Then I watch the replay footage, shrieking as he takes a nasty hit into the boards from behind.
I don’t know enough about the penalties to know what just happened, but a Canes player is going to the box, and they’re setting up for another face-off. Colton and Jean-Luc leave the ice and Lukas and Jake skate on.
I’ve never been so grateful to know the players have instant medical care. Rachel is behind Colton in a flash, one hand on his shoulder as he nods, taking the water bottle offered by Sanford.
“He’s okay,” I whisper to myself, sinking back in my seat.
The puck drops, and Josh O’Sullivan, our center and team captain, gets possession. He quickly bats it back to Jake, who shoots it across the ice to where Lukas is already waiting. Lukas just barely catches the puck on the tip of his stick as he surges forward, darting around a charging Hurricane.
“Shoot it,” the Bauer rep next to me yells.
“Pass it,” someone shouts behind me.
I’m on the edge of my seat again, watching as Lukas dances around his pursuer. The slot is a mess of players. All our forwards are jammed up by the Hurricanes, trying to get clear for a pass. Lukas darts right with the puck and takes the shot. The whole arena seems to hold their breath for the span of the two seconds it takes for the puck to fly across the ice and slip right between the goalie’s skate and the post. The cherry lights up, and the Rays fans go wild.
Rays—1. Hurricanes—0.
Lukas Novikov, a mouthy defenseman with anger issues and caramel eyes, just scored the first goal in Rays history.
The team descends on him, cheering and patting his back. He breaks free, smiling ear to ear as the music changes. The chorus of Daft Punk’s “Get Lucky” plays over the sound system as the Jumbotron zooms in on Lukas’s confident, smiling face. Finding the right camera, he turns, looks straight down the lens, and winks.
My cheers die in my throat as I drop to my seat. I snatch my gin and tonic off the ledge and take a sip, trying to drown the stupid, girlish fluttering in my chest. Even if no one else in this arena knows the truth, Lukas knows…and I know it too.
He was winking at me.