That surprise quickly morphed into worry as she pulled out her phone, checking it, saying, “It’s just not like him.”
I’d barely kept myself from saying, “I know.”
Because I did, and I do. I’ve been watching Luca McKenzie just as closely as he’s been watching me. Granted, I haven’t tried to follow him home from work, but I needed a few things and had a good time watching Callum squirm in the rear-view mirror.
Plus, there was something exciting about the idea of Luca spending time thinking about me like that. Knowing that I take up real estate in his head.
Now, Luca brings the puck back down into the Ranger’s zone, keeping close to the boards and sending it toward Cal, who knocks it over to Nikolai Petrov.
Petrov, a veteran in the league nearing retirement, rumored to be done after this year. On the top line with Luca and Cal, a little stiffer in his play, more traditional. During the strategy meeting, I could sense his reluctance to hear what I had to say. He clearly didn’t like the psychological reports on the other players—the weaknesses I’d pointed out in each of them.
Maverick scoops up the puck on the Frost’s side of the ice and slides up and around the back of the goal, saying something to Grayson as he goes.
Maverick is the most receptive to my information and strategy, most likely to act on it. Now, I watch him pass the puck to Luca, go back to pressing up on Brownsworth—the Rangers’ right winger—with his mouth moving, barely perceptible behind his mask.
It will throw Brownsworth off—Maverick is great at shit-talking.
Petrov gets the puck, passes it to Cal. It comes back to Petrov, then to Luca, who fakes a hit at the goal and dumps it to Cal. I groan loudly, thinking Cal is going to take the hit—on therightside of the goal—but he pops it back over to Luca, who looks visibly pissed as he rockets it at the net, just a little flick of the wrist with so much power behind it.
And it goes in.
“Yes!” The word bursts out of me before I can stop it, and I’m on my feet with the Frost guy next to me, cheering and hollering. With that goal, we can come back from the hole we’ve fallen into. I glance down at my notes, try to figure out if there’s anything else I can come up with to pass to Uncle Vic before the start of the next period.
When I look up, Luca is cruising, stick held horizontally across his body like he’s just finished a celebration.
And his eyes are on me.
Our gazes connect, and I find myself unable to look away from him, unable to read that expression on his face. Is he impressed that I was right? Does he realize that he finally pressed the left like I said, and that’s why they got the point?
Before I can figure out what he’s thinking, he looks away and focuses back on the other players, congratulating them with little smacks on the back.
A moment later, I realize my heart is beating hard in my chest, similar to the feeling I used to get when doing a job with my dad. Why is that? Because Luca is like the security guard, coming around the corner, about to catch me?
Except I’m not doing anything wrong. As much as he thinks I am.
And, for some reason, I have this nagging, pressing urge to prove to Luca McKenzie that I’m exactly who I say I am—and that I can do what I say I can. I can help this team get to the Stanley Cup.
If only he would get out of my way.
***
“No—there is no way we’re switching Chen to a lower line. That just doesn’t make any sense,” Luca says.
“Itdoesmake sense,” I say, looking to Uncle Vic, who also appears dubious. “Think about Chen, his personality. He’s all about the spotlight, right? He loves attention. You want to get him to play his A-game? Give him something to prove. Take a little bit of time away from him by dropping him to the third line, and he’ll fight to get it back.”
“Yeah,or,” Luca says, shaking his head and leaning forward, his hand splayed out on the table, “he gets pissed off that we’re arbitrarily moving him around on the lines and decides to trade away to another team.”
“That—” I point a finger at him “—is residual worry from the loss of Maverick Hawkins two years ago.”
“Don’tpsychoanalyzeme—”
“Alright!” Uncle Vic holds his hands up, glancing between Luca and me, shaking his head. “This is a massive waste of time. The two of you need to figure out how to get on the same page.”
“Vic, come on,” I turn to him, trying to appeal to him. “It’s clearly Luca that has a problem with this. Maybe he should just be off the strategy team.”
Luca’s eyebrows practically disappear into his hair line. “Are youkidding? I’m not the one suggesting we move people around randomly just to see what it does to their heads.”
“I’m leaving,” Uncle Vic announces snapping his binder shut. “And I don’t want to see the two of you coming through this door until you’ve resolved your differences.” With that, he pushes his chair back, stands, and heads for the door, moving faster than you might think a man of that age could.
