Page 72 of The Do-Over Girl

He snorts. “Is tomorrow too soon?” I laugh, and my smile lasts long after we end the call because that is as good as saying, I miss you.

* * *

The last gameof the season is against Cabot Cove, the third time APA has played them. My nerves have been on edge all day, especially now that my last class is over and my classroom is empty. The cheerleaders are meeting me at the rink in an hour, giving them a chance to go home to eat and prepare—otherwise known as hair and make-up. We’re long past the time when we need any pre-game practice of their routines.

The knock on my door makes me jump, but I look up and find Nash standing in the open doorway.

“You’re not superstitious, are you?” he says, and I join him, closing my door behind us.

“Not particularly, why?” I smile, knowing there’s a wisecrack coming because that’s how he is. Even on a day like today, when the last game of the season is hours away, and his chance to go undefeated is within reach.

“Because it’s impossible to be this lucky.” He pulls me in, dips his head, and kisses me. It’s the kind of kiss we’d assign demerits for if we caught students like this. But I don’t care.

* * *

I’m sittingbehind the cheerleaders, to the right and behind the bench, and though I should be watching the girls, my eyes seem to be riveted to Nash, his perfect straight back, his unruly longish hair that makes me long to reach out and drag my hands through it—

Snap. “Hello? Earth to Kali,” Nikki says, the living embodiment of my conscience—or the worst chaperone my mind ever had.

“I’m nervous,” I say with a tiny grimace.

She snorts. “You? How do you think I feel?”

“You?”

“Sure. My entire future is staked on this team’s success. A loss tonight could deflate our whole campaign like a pinprick in a high-flying balloon.”

I bark an incredulous laugh. “That’s not going to happen.” I give her a squeeze with one arm. “Even if we don’t win—which is a long shot because we’re going to crush this team. I have it on good authority. The guys are very well motivated.”

“Good to know.”

“But either way, I know how to handle it, and we will squash any negativity and play the positives for everything they’re worth.”

“Positives?”

“Yes, like our kickass 19-1 record—at worst—more likely, we’ll be 20-0. We’re the favorites to win the state tournament either way.”

“Gotcha.” She squeezes me back. “I know I hired you for a reason.”

I smile, but my edgy nerves don’t leave as I watch the TV cameras move in around the rink and the press box full to capacity along with the entire arena. It’s a minor miracle that the game is being televised on Portland’s station. The NHL network also sent a TV crew to capture highlights and do interviews of Nash and Dylan.

Plus, I have several students getting official clips for our APA school IG and TikTok accounts. That doesn’t even count all the unofficial videos being taken and posted.

We have to win this game.

* * *

Sitting literallyon the edge of my seat, my head on a swivel, looking between Nash, the ice, and my girls—because they keep looking to me for reassurance—I squeeze the life out of Nikki’s hand before the end of the second period.

The score is tied at three all, and Nikki’s keeping her hands in her pockets.

We’re on our feet, cheering along with the cheerleaders and the crowd at the top of our lungs as the team takes the ice for the last period of the last game. I feel the moment in my churning gut, and as Nash steps onto the bench, he looks straight at me, serious as death.

Then he winks, splitting my heart open. I grin and laugh and lose my cool, blowing a kiss at him. He only quirks a brow, then turns his attention to the ice and his players as he should.

“This is going to be fucking hard,” Nikki whispers to me.

I snort. “Does this mean you’re going to let me squeeze your hand like a stress ball?”