Page 5 of The Overtime Kiss
I lift my hand, waggling my phone. “Oh no, whatever will I do?”
I push open the door and take off, running in heels. I’m an athlete, and all those early morning miles I logged as a kid pay off now. I’m gone before anyone can even think about catching me. I could call one of my friends here today, like Leighton or Isla, but there’s not enough time.
I quickly order a Lyft to—think fast. I know! There’s an ice-skating rink nearby in Cozy Valley. I plug in the name as I sprint across the hotel grounds in this tulle-and-lace abomination, heading straight for the street. My getaway driver pulls up just as I check the app. Yup.
A black Prius, and the license plate checks out.
I slide in, breathless. “Hi, Rhonda. Can you help a girl out? I need to get out of townfast.”
“You want me to step on it? Just say the word.”
“Step on it.” Holy shit, that was fun to say.
The grandmotherly woman with a wicked smile eyes me up and down in the rearview mirror, then flashes apartner in crimesmile. “I’ve been waiting my whole life for this chance.”
She peels away like it’s a stunt.
But it’s not. It’s me taking my life back.
2
I TOLD YOU SO
Tyler
Ah, there’s nothing quite like a night off from the kids. Don’t get me wrong—I love those two little stinkers more than I love playing hockey. But an evening without a request for mac and cheese? Without complaints about who got more or whose turn it is to do the dishes? I’ll happily take it.
It’s been so long since I’ve had a free night that I’m barely even sure what to do with my time. After finishing dinner with my agent at a restaurant here in Cozy Valley—a productive meeting where we agreed to focus on making the next season better, both on the ice and with sponsorships—I head to the hotel bar. I’m staying overnight in this small town about forty minutes outside San Francisco since I’m playing golf tomorrow morning in a local tournament some friends here roped me into joining. But until then, no one needs me.
When I catch sight of the baseball game on the big screen, I know this is exactly what a perfect night off looks like. The bar has a warm, relaxed vibe, with wood-paneledwalls, a long, polished counter, and a vintage record player playing a pop tune I won’t admit to my teammates that I know by heart. A row of wooden stools lines the bar, and there’s a faint hum of chatter from a handful of patrons. A woodcut sign boasts brews crafted locally.
I grab a seat and say hello to the bartender, a weathered old dude in a vintage concert T-shirt whose name tag reads Ike. Fitting.
He slaps down a coaster and asks, “What’ll it be?”
“Whatever you’ve got on tap,” I say, since I’m not picky, and I bet he thrives on being trusted to pick a beer.
With a quick nod, he says, “You look like a lager type.”
“Works for me.” I settle in, letting the pressure of the past season—a tough one with a new team—melt away as I focus on the game on TV and the cold glass of beer Ike brings me. Only, the game isn’t exactly relaxing. By the second inning, it’s clear the umpire needs to be tossed out.
“Are you kidding me? That was such a strike,” I mutter.
“Nope. It dipped by the outside corner, Tyler. Hanging curve that hung too long,” a confident, feminine voice says—someone who clearly knows me.
I turn toward the sound, and my brain fractures for a second. It’s like running into your doctor in the cereal aisle—that is, if you have a wildly inappropriate crush on your gorgeous, sassy doctor.
Or your ten-year-old’s ice-skating coach, who’s incomprehensibly here in a small-town hotel bar instead of the city where I see her every week, but who’s counting?
Sabrina Snow flops down onto the seat next to mine in a cloud of white poof, wearing a lopsided tiara. But she doesn’t look like the polished, pink-cheeked, ponytailed woman who teaches Luna how to execute toe loops. With her wind-whipped blonde hair, tiara askew, and a wedding dress that seems completely out of character, Sabrina looks like she’sseen better days. Especially since she’s kicking a foot back and forth—and I can’t help but notice she’s wearing mismatched shower slides—one pink, one orange.
“Sabrina?” She’s the last person I expected to run into tonight—especially like this.
“That’s me,” she says dryly. Too dryly. She laughs, but it sounds forced. “Fancy meeting you here.”
“Sure is.” Running into this woman on her wedding day is a wild card. Call it a gut feeling—or that forced laugh—but I’m not sure the groom is around.
“How’s Luna? What’s she up to since I saw you all the other day? Are you having a fun little family getaway?” she asks, but her voice is full of manufactured cheer.
