Victor Page 4

  “I’ve got two games.” I rest my elbows on my spread knees and look down. “If I don’t play like a rock star in the next two games, I’m going to the third line.”

  Lindy’s silent for a beat before saying, “The…third line?”

  “Yeah.” I sigh heavily. “The reporters will love that. My fall from the top makes for good headlines.”

  “Well, stop acting like it’s inevitable!”

  Lindy’s tone is admonishing. I turn my face to look at her. Her eyes have their shine again. They’re a pretty swirl of gold and bronze that get brighter when she talks about hockey.

  “I’m gonna do my best,” I offer, nodding at her. “I’m not giving up yet.”

  “You’re not giving up ever! You’re Victor Lane. You worked your whole life to get here. You walked three miles each way to the rink as a kid. Painted houses during summers in high school to buy your gear.”

  I sit up straight, giving her a skeptical look. “How do you know all that?”

  Her cheeks flush again as she shrugs. “I read articles about the Blaze. The whole team.”

  I groan and grin at the same time. “Not just me?”

  Her blush intensifies. “No, not just you.”

  “Damn. Thought I had a superfan. Maybe my first stalker.”

  “You have lots of superfans.” She gives me a serious look. “Kids wear your name and number on the backs of their shirts at every game. So go out there and Happy Gilmore the hell out of that puck.”

  Her reference makes me grin. “That’s one of my favorite movies.”

  “Mine too.”

  “What would Chubbs tell me to do?” I ask, lightly bumping her shoulder with mine. Hers is about six inches lower than mine, so it’s more like my upper arm.

  “Ah, you know what he’d say. It’s all in the hips.”

  I bust out laughing. Most of the women I talk to are always selling themselves. They pretend to be making conversation about how much they work out or all the places they’ve travelled, but it’s an obvious attempt to make themselves sound amazing.

  Lindy is completely down to earth. It’s damn refreshing.

  “So I should just tap, tap, tap the puck in, right?” I keep our joke going.

  She gives me a pointed look. “I suggest you slapshot it so hard you put a hole through the back of the net.”

  “Okay, coach.”

  “I know it’s one thing for me to sit here in an empty arena and say it and another thing to actually do it, but…I know you can get your mojo back and then some.”

  When I first saw Lindy sitting here, I thought she was just an average woman. Her brown hair is tied back in a ponytail at the nape of her neck and she’s wearing casual clothes. Nothing about her begs to be noticed. But she encourages me with an earnestness that feels…real. Everything about her seems authentic.

  “I think you might believe in me more than I believe in myself,” I admit.

  “That happens sometimes.”

  She puts her palms on her thighs and I see that her nails are unpolished and cut short. I’m not sure when I last saw a woman with natural nails. I think I like it.

  “Three years ago, when the Sox fell behind 3-1 in the series, my dad gave up on them,” she says. “Not me. I knew that with Latimer pitching, Game 5 was in the bag. Then they came back home for Games 6 and 7, so homefield advantage. They won it all.”

  “So you’re just an optimist. Always rooting for the underdog. Nothing wrong with that.”

  “No.” She looks over at me, her expression serious. “I’m a realist. I knew the Patriots would win the Super Bowl last year, even though I wished the Rams would have.”

  “Huh. So you’re saying we should hop a flight to Vegas right now, because you could lay some good bets?”

  She grins and the pink blush on her face deepens—it seems to be a thing with her. “That sounds a lot better than sanitizing soft serve machines.” She sighs softly. “But I’d bet my next paycheck that you’re gonna play amazing in the next two games.”

  “I’ll play my hardest.”

  “Remember. First on puck, pass hard and shoot hard. Play every game like it’s your last.”

  I chuckle and say, “Yes, sensei.”

  Her shoulders slump. “I should get back to work.”

  “Do you work this late all the time?”

  “No, only once or twice a month.”

  She stands up and tucks her phone into the pocket of her hoodie. I stand up, too. With my skates on, I tower over her by more than a foot.

  “Hey, seriously,” I say. “Thanks. What you said to me tonight…I needed to hear it.”

  Her eyes are bright as she looks up at me. “I believe in you, Victor. And I’m always right about these things. It drives my dad crazy.”

  She turns toward the end of the front row and starts walking away.

  “Lindy,” I call after her, “will you be watching the St. Louis game?”

  “Absolutely. I never miss a game unless I’m working, and I’m off tomorrow night.”

  “Okay.” I’m not sure what to say next, so I add, “And hey, good luck with those soft serve machines.”

  “Thanks.”

  She leaves then, and the arena is once again silent. I get up and head for the locker room, still thinking about our conversation. I don’t know if I can pull off this comeback, but it feels good to know someone thinks I can.

  In less than twenty-four hours, we’ll know if she’s right.

  Chapter Seven

  Lindy

  * * *

  “Our guys better have their shit together tonight,” my dad says gruffly. “No excuse for losing to this sorry-ass team.”

  He cracks open an Old Style and sits down in his usual spot on our overstuffed sofa. The cushion on that end is worn through, which Dad says is due to years of being molded perfectly to fit his ass.

  “Give them a chance before you start bitching,” I say from the recliner I watch games in.

  “West was sloppy in the last game. Let four pucks fly right past him.”

  “Well, five of ours flew past the other goalie, so that’s still a win.”

  Dad grunts his reluctant agreement. “A sloppy one.”

  “Where are the guys?”

  Dad shakes his head. “Fair weather fans, those jokers. Don’s wife made him go to a visitation with her, Chuck has his bowling league tonight and Jerry…I dunno why he’s not here. Probably afraid to show up without Don.”

  “A visitation seems like a legit reason to miss a game,” I say wryly.

  “Depends whose it is.” Dad reaches for the bowl of popcorn I left on the coffee table.

  “You better schedule your death accordingly then. I don’t know if I’ll be willing to miss playoff games for it.”

  Dad chuckles and shakes his head. “Daughter of mine, if there’s an MLB, NFL, NHL or NBA playoff game being played during my funeral, I want it on in the background. Pop a cold sixer of Old Style into the casket with me and I’ll be a happy corpse.”

  The puck drops then, and we both turn our attention to the TV screen. My pulse kicks up a notch as soon as I see the red sweater with number 12 on the back. Victor. He’s flying across the ice with a purpose, and I’m mentally sending him every positive vibe I have.

  I spent today going back and forth between being stunned and elated. I know there’s a higher, happier place than Cloud Nine, because that’s where I’ve been since meeting Victor last night. I’m somewhere around Cloud Fifty-Seven right now.

  From now on, when I see his smiling photo on posters in the arena with the team roster, I’ll remember how it felt when he was smiling at me. Only me.

  My silly daydreams about how it would feel to actually talk to Victor didn’t come close to the reality. I never imagined him joking and laughing with me, or sharing his frustrations. But the most surreal part was him asking me for hockey advice.

  I’ve always looked at Victor from the outside and assumed he had it all. He’s handsome a
nd rich, doing a job most people can only dream of. And even though it ended badly, he dated Kristen Moore, one of the most beautiful, popular actresses in the world. I’ve seen photos of him with models, too. I figured he was living the dream.

  But he has worries and insecurities, too. I’m not just rooting for his comeback because I have a massive crush on him; there was a raw vulnerability in Victor last night that made me see him in a new light.

  Just like my horrible boss Bruce deserves to step in a fresh pile of dog shit when he leaves his house, Victor deserves to prove himself on the ice tonight. Not for his coach, or the fans, but for himself. Karma, baby. I believe.

  “Jesus, Petrov. That was an easy shot,” my dad grumbles.

  “Maybe not so easy when there’s a 230 pound enforcer on your ass.”

  Dad gives me a pointed look. “That’s why he’s paid the big bucks. He’s gotta leave his vagina in the locker room. It takes a big nut sac to play in the NHL.”

  I roll my eyes. “I’m sure his nut sac is plenty large. He’s leading the league in goals scored this season.”

  “Yeah, but half of ‘em are because he’s covering for Victor Lane. That guy couldn’t score if the goalie took a fuckin’ bathroom break in the middle of the game.”

  “I’m so glad you’re not melodramatic, Dad.”

  He shakes his head and then tips his beer can up to his mouth, draining it. “You’d agree with me if you didn’t work where you do.”

  “I would not. I was a Blaze fan long before then.”

  “Can’t live under this roof and not root for the Blaze.”

  My eyes stay glued to the screen as Anton passes the puck to Victor, who lines up for a perfect shot and slapshots it so hard I lose sight of the puck. I hold my breath, praying it went in.

  “Fucking Dobbs,” my dad mutters.

  He throws several pieces of popcorn at the TV, disgusted that the St. Louis goalie somehow blocked the shot. Our eight-year-old bulldog, Doc, slowly gets up from his bed beneath the coffee table to eat the popcorn.

  We don’t see much of Doc anymore unless he’s hungry or has to go outside. He mostly sleeps near my dad, passing gas and snoring.

  “Doc,” I call.

  He waddles over and I feed him the uneaten crust from the pizza I just ate. I rub his back and he looks up at me, his dark eyes loaded with love and gratitude.

  When I look up at the TV screen, Victor has the puck again. He passes it to Luca, who passes it to Anton. I’m expecting Anton to shoot it when he slides it to Victor instead. Victor slaps it again and this time…it gets past Matt Dobbs.

  I cheer and pump my fist, jumping out of my chair. “Yeah! Hell yeah! Did you see that?” I point at the screen and turn to my dad.

  He shrugs slightly like he’s unimpressed, but the corners of his lips quirk up in a smile. Victor celebrates with his team on the ice and I keep my eyes locked on him, my hands clasped in front of my mouth.

  It takes me a couple minutes to relax enough that I can sit back down. I blink several times to clear away the unshed tears blurring my vision. When there’s a line change, the cameraman zooms in on Victor’s face and his relaxed, happy smile makes me smile, too.

  My dad points the remote at the TV screen. “Sox have a playoff game tonight,” he says.

  “No!” I give him a wild-eyed look. “Let’s watch the Blaze game.”

  “I can switch back and forth, Lindy. I do it all the time.”

  “I don’t want to miss any of the hockey game.” I start to get up from my chair. “It’s no big deal, I can go watch it in my room.”

  Dad sets the remote down on the couch. “Nah, stay here. Doc and I like your company. We’ll watch hockey.”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  “Everything good at work?” he asks me.

  “Yeah, it’s pretty good.”

  “Good. That creepy guy still lookin’ at you funny?”

  I shrug. “Manny looks at everyone funny.”

  “Well, that asshole gets too close, you tell him your dad’s got a pipe wrench he’s not afraid to bash heads in with.”

  “I’ll be okay, Dad. I’m sure Manny’s just desperate for attention from any woman, not specifically me.”

  “He told your friend he likes you, though.”

  I shrug off his comment. “He probably likes every woman at the Carson Center.”

  The commentators start talking about Victor then, and I focus on the game again. One of them says Victor’s been in a slump of late, and asks whether the goal he just scored is a fluke or the start of a comeback.

  It can’t be a fluke. Victor needs his resurgence to stick. And I want it for him, so badly. I’ll probably never talk to him again, but I’ll be rooting for him from afar even more so than before.

  If I had anything at all to do with him turning things around on the ice—even a tiny little bit—it’s one of the best things that’s ever happened to me.

  That conversation with Victor was the one thing I haven’t shared with my dad. I want to keep that just for myself right now. Maybe forever. There was something intimate about being alone with him. Instead of thousands of screaming fans, Victor was focused entirely on me.

  Last night was enough to sustain my crush on him for a very long time. I may tell Ari about it, but I haven’t decided yet. I trust her completely, but I know her. She’ll prod me to find a way to run into him again and lecture me on the proper way to flirt. I’m comically bad at it.

  Victor and I will never be a thing. I know that. But for a few magical moments, I got to see the side of him that his friends and teammates see. Maybe even his family. I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to think about it and not feel warm and gooey inside.

  On the TV screen, Knox Deveraux is throwing his gloves to the ice, about to fight with the St. Louis enforcer. The crowd goes wild, and Dad leans forward in his seat.

  “This is gonna be good,” he says gleefully.

  He watches the fight, but I watch Victor, standing off to the side. I’m glad he’s not an enforcer; those guys take hard, regular beatings. I couldn’t stand to see Victor knocked unconscious or watch his teeth fly out from a blow to the face.

  The fight ends with no blood drawn, and we go back to watching the game. I get up to pee during a commercial break, but other than that, I’m riveted for the entire game.

  Victor doesn’t score again, but he holds his own. And when the Blaze celebrate their 4-2 win, his expression is light—completely different than it was when he practiced on his own last night.

  He looks so happy. And in my fictional world, he’ll go have dinner with his teammates and then go back to his room, where he’ll have a thought or two about that nice woman from Concessions who gave him advice before drifting into a peaceful sleep.

  I’m not good with the nonfictional reality—that his celebrating will likely involve a woman. It’s been am amazing twenty-four hours. I want to end it on a good note.

  Chapter Eight

  Victor

  * * *

  I survived.

  It’s been more than a week since I scored against St. Louis, and I’ve stayed hot since. I scored two goals and had two more assists in the last three games.

  Coach slapped me on the back and told me my first line spot is safe—for now. In pro hockey, that’s as much security as any of us ever get. It’s an honor to play at this level, but that honor comes with pressure that never lets up. You’re only as good as your last game.

  “You’re coming out with us tonight,” Easy says as we both shower in the Toronto locker room after a 3-2 win.

  “I just want to eat and go to bed,” I say, not even looking over.

  “Bars have food.”

  I laugh. “Yeah, and booze. And before you know it, it’s 3:00 a.m. and you can’t even remember what city you’re in.”

  “I’ll write it on a little piece of paper you can put in your pocket. Then you’ll know when the time comes.”

  Running my hands through my hair, I rin
se the last of the shampoo out and run my hands down my face to clear away the lather of suds.

  “I’m tired, man.” I turn the shower handle, stopping the flow of hot water. “Another time.”

  Easy shakes his head. “You’ve been clutch lately, Vic. Let’s celebrate.”

  His smile is warm and genuine. That’s just like Easy—to be happy I got my mojo back even though it means he doesn’t get to move up to the first line. He’s a team player, and an all-around good guy.

  “I’m dying for a big steakhouse dinner. I’m starving. We can celebrate with a big-ass basket of bread. C’mon man, bread!”

  I wrap a towel around my waist as Easy turns off his shower. He gives me that trademark grin of his—perfect white teeth.

  “Mia’s here,” he says. “Anton’s not going out to dinner with you. And Luca’s got a Facetime date with his woman.”

  “Shit.”

  Easy opens his hands, still grinning. “You’re stuck with me, bro.”

  His use of the word “bro” makes me laugh. Easy attended private prep schools as a kid. He has a French accent, but he also speaks several other languages. He’s just too damned refined to use certain words, but he tries.

  “Alright, I’ll go,” I concede, “if you say ‘cocksucker.’”

  He rolls his eyes. “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “Fine, I’ll use it in a sentence, how’s that? You, Victor Lane, are a cocksucker.”

  I belt out the best laugh I’ve had in a while. With his accent, it sounds like ‘coke sucka.’ Never gets old.

  After I dress in a black suit with a white shirt and red tie, a PR person from our team gets me for interviews. I haven’t been getting interview requests much this season, so it feels pretty good.

  When I answer a few questions on camera for a TV reporter, I’m saying all the right stuff, but wondering in the back of my head if Lindy will see it.

  I’ve thought about her every day since the night we met. Her advice was good, and it was right on. But it wasn’t anything I didn’t know already. I needed to hear it, but I think what helped me the most was her confidence in me. Part of the reason I played so hard against St. Louis was that I wanted her to be right for believing in me. I wanted to make her proud.