“What's wrong, sis?”
“I just broke up with Todd.”
“What? Why?”
I gave him the run-down—that Todd hadn't picked me up from a job interview, which meant I had to accept a ride from a male co-worker, and then Todd got angry over it, and he called me some very degrading words. I told Derek that Todd was an ass in general who didn't care about me, and moving to a new city and living with him, made thatpainfullyclear.
Derek was seething. “Fuck it. I can drive down to Denver tomorrow. I just gotta make some calls, get my shift covered tomorrow, and then I'll head on down. I'll tune Toddy-boy right up and teach hisdumb assa lesson. Then I'll help you pack your shit and bring you back home.”
“No … no …” I shook my head. “Thanks, but I don'twantyou to 'tune' him up. And I don't wanna move back home, either. I want to make it here, Derek. I want to stand on my own two feet for once.”
“Well … call me if you change your mind.” Derek sighed. “So, what was this job you applied for?”
I closed my eyes. “An ice girl. You know, like at a hock—”
“You tried out to be anice girl? In the NHL? Don't you know what goes on between those girls and the players?”
I sighed. “Derek—please! I just went through this with Todd, okay? I'm smart, I'm not going to get into any trouble. Just please don't tell Mom and Dad.”
“Jesus, Honor.” He went silent for a moment or two. “I won't tell them that you tried out. But if you get offered that job, you better turn it down.”
He didn't even realize I'd already accepted it.
“… I will,” I lied.
Chapter 7:
New Girl
Rockwell
One week later.
“I want this one, boys. I want this onebad,” I told my teammates in the dressing room before we took to the ice.
We'd spent the last week on the road—games against St. Louis, Minnesota, and Chicago. A victory in St. Louis, an overtime loss in Minnesota, and a hugevictory in Chicago gave our team five out of a possible six points. And, more importantly, those games got us within shooting distance of the playoffs. If we won tonight? We'd slide into playoff position, with only four games left in the season.
Tonight, we were finally back home in Colorado. Our opponent? My old team, the Boston Bears, led by their captain, my former best friend and roommate—and all aroundshitbag—Chris Cunningham.
“I hate these guys. We win, and I'm buying dinner and drinks for everyone.”
The boys liked the sound of that—theyooh'ed andaah'ed. This might be a room full of millionaires, but it's still a bunch of guys that love a free meal and booze.
“And who knows, if one of you happens to lay out Cunningham with a good hit, I'll throw in a grand.”
Iggy Morrow, our resident defensive specialist and open-ice hitter, shook his head. “I wish—I'd love to hit that little shit. The mouth on that guy? Jesus, it's always running! But he's too damn slippery. Some guys you just can't seem to hit, and he's one of 'em. Worse part is how heactslike he wants to fight, but he never,ever,drops the gloves.”
I ground my fist into my palm. “That's him, alright.”
Iggy stroked his chin thoughtfully. “So, uh—let that be a warning for you rookies. If Cunningham starts chirping about how he wants to drop the gloves, don't, unless he drops them first. Otherwise he'll just bait you into a penalty.”
The rookies nodded.
“Hey Rockwell. You ever gonna tell us what the hell Cunningham did to piss you off so damn bad?” First line sniper and my left winger, Vinny DeMarco, asked while he wrapped the blade of his stick with cloth tape.
“Nah. Doesn't matter anyway,” I answered curtly.
But Vinny always has to push the envelope. With his eyes locked on his tape-job, he kept rambling. “I could've sworn that you and Cunningham were tight back in your Boston days. Anytime we played against you guys, you two seemed real buddy-buddy on the ice, you know, good pals, and—”
