Page 74 of Slap Shot Surprise
Mabel laughed. “There’s your answer.”
“I can’t wait to meet you,” I said, feeling kind of stupid but also ridiculously happy. “And introduce you to your cousins and your grandparents. And teach you to skate and handle a stick and pass and shoot and how to be the kind of player coaches love.”
“Maybeyou’llbe his coach someday.”
I met Mabel’s eyes and swallowed. “Maybe I will.”
She smiled, and I had that urge again to pull her close. Bury my face in her hair and breathe her in. Lay my cheek on her stomach and listen. Put my lips on her skin.
Reimagine my future.
Removing my hand from her belly, I stood up. “I should probably give you a minute. Bathroom is right across thehall, and it’s all yours. I hung clean towels in there for you. Extra blankets are in the closet.”
“Okay.” She pulled the stretchy navy material up over the bump. “I just need to change out of my sweater and put my contacts in.”
I nodded. “We’ll head out in about twenty?”
“Perfect.”
I left the guest room and headed down the hall. In my bedroom, I shut the door and dropped onto the foot of the bed, my hands curled over the mattress edge. My heart was beating hard, and I felt like a stranger in my own skin.
Get dressed, I told myself.Put on your suit and tie. Go to the arena. Get the pads on. Lace up your skates. Get on the ice. That’s where you’ll feel like yourself again.
I pushed myself up off the bed, certain it would happen.
“Are you sure you’re up for this?” I paused in front of the Irish pub’s door and looked at Mabel. I’d told my teammates we’d join them for post-game drinks, but it was so crowded and loud in there. Mabel couldn’t even have alcohol—wouldn’t she be miserable around a bunch of tipsy strangers?
“I’m positive, Joe.” Wrapped in her winter coat, she tucked her hands in her pockets. “Let’s go in.”
“We don’t have to, if you’re tired.”
“I’m fine.” She smiled at me. “Plus, we said we’d be here. Your friends are expecting us. How can they celebrate the win without the MVP?”
With just a few seconds left on the clock, I’d scored the tie-breaking goal that clinched our victory. But I couldn’ttake all the credit. “I’m not the MVP. I got a great pass from Larsson.”
“You’re right, you’re just a chump.” Pulling a hand from her pocket, she gave me a light punch on the shoulder. “Well, let’s go in so I can congratulatehimthen.”
Laughing, I swung the door open. “Okay, but when you’re done, let me know. We can leave whenever you want.”
Inside, the pub was busy. A long wooden bar occupied the wall on the left, lined with people packed three deep. Bartenders moved quickly, pouring pints of beer or mixing drinks from rows of shiny glass bottles on shelves behind them. The rattle of ice in metal cocktail shakers could barely be heard over the loud Irish rock blaring from the speakers, and people shouted to be heard over the music.
Instinctively, I took Mabel’s hand and pulled her through the room, where groups of people huddled over high-top tables or sat in booths over to the right. Many wore Chicago jerseys—Mabel was still wearing mine—and I could see people looking at me. Some even waved and called out.
“Great game, Lupo!”
“Nice goal!”
“Championship, here we come!”
I nodded or shouted thanks but kept moving, my grip on Mabel’s hand secure. At the back of the pub, I opened a thick wooden door to reveal a private room with a pool table at its center and brown leather furniture grouped in cozy formations on either side. Several of my teammates and their wives or girlfriends had already arrived and were relaxing with drinks on the couches or involved in a game of pool.
Dag Larsson’s wife, Anna, who’d sat with Mabel at thegame, stood up from a couch. “Mabel!” she called, waving us over. “Come sit with us.”
“Lupo!” Larsson shouted. “Grab a stick. I need a partner.”
I hesitated, not sure if Mabel would rather I stay with her or leave her to hang out with the women.
She read my mind. “Go on,” she said. “I’m fine. You don’t have to babysit me.”
