Page 4 of He Has Game (Boston Brawlers Hockey)
“They’ve tasked me with solving this problem before they resort to a trade. So keep your mouth shut and pay attention.”
She pauses to make sure her message sinks in. It does.Fuck. I need to stay with the Brawlers. We’re on a serious run for the Stanley Cup this season. I give her my game face, intense and blank, devoid of emotion and ready to play. Not that anyone can normally see it under my goalie mask. Darting my eyes at the mouse, I see she’s paying close attention, but her face is the opposite of blank. It’s full of excitement and anticipation, like she’s holding her breath waiting to be named Miss America.
The mouse sure seems to have a lot of passion in there after all, even if itisall bottled up and expended in an oddball way. She probably gets off on books and poetry and kittens. Not that there’s anything wrong with those things—if you’re twelve years old.
“We’ll come up with the back story for your romance and you’ll memorize it, adhere to it and take Vivian to the next charity event on Saturday after the game. You will put on a performance to make everyone believe you’re a couple in love, and you’ll spread your story. The following week, you’ll announce your engagement. You will remain engaged for the rest of the season, at which time Ms. Frost’s internship will end and you’ll disappear back to your hometown somewhere far away in Canada.”
“Snow Lake, Manitoba,” I say automatically. My hometown. The place I haven’t been back to since I left to play hockey and have no intention of returning to, but no need to throw in that extraneous detail to monkey wrench her plans.
“It’s March first. There’re only six weeks left to the season and then the playoffs. So, say about twelve weeks tops, God willing. If we make it to the Stanley Cup finals.”
Mary stops pacing and folds her arms like it’s a done deal.
Fucking shit. Engaged? Even as a pretense the idea makes me shiver. I glance over at Vivian fucking Frost like she’s the architect of my coming hell. Because she is.
She smiles back. And fuck if she doesn’t have a pretty little smile.
“There’s no if about it,” I say. “We’ll be in the finals.” I’m not blowing hype here. I feel it. I know it. Our team is on an outrageous roll. We’ve been unstoppable. Except me, because I’ve been stopping everything. My goals against average is down to 2.1. I intend to get it under 2.0.
“I think it’s a brilliant idea,” Vivian says. In slow motion, she turns and looks me fully in the face for the first time and I’m struck by her vivid green eyes behind the glasses, the promise of goodness loud and clear in them. Shit. I’m being tethered to Mother Teresa for three months.
But with a long-suffering sigh and my mind finally brought to heel, thinking unimpeded by alcohol or my dick, I acknowledge two things.
First, if Mary says I have no choice or I’ll be traded, I believe her. She’s a lot of things, but above all she’s a no-nonsense straight shooter with the players.
Second, playing house with Ms. Mouse will help me keep my dick in line and my focus on the game, exactly where it needs to be for a Stanley Cup run. No way do I want the backup goalie being put in the nets even for one fucking game from here on in. I want this run. I’ve been working hard and building toward it for the past five years since I’ve been in the league and even before that. All my fucking life. Now’s my shot and who knows if I’ll ever get another one?
I’m young, but I’m no fool and I know a special team when I’m on one.
“Okay,” I say and stand.
“You’ll do it?” Mary says. She’s surprised but recovers quickly and puts a hand out. “Not so fast. We have details to iron out.”
“I thought you said you’d come up with the story and get back to me. I have to be in the weight room in ten minutes.”
I dart a glance at Vivian and she’s mute, her previously open-book face now hard to read. Maybe she’s having buyer’s remorse, but that’s just too fucking bad.
“Fine, but there are some ground rules I want to make perfectly clear before we proceed.” Mary looks at me and then at Vivian. We all sit down.
Mary tents her fingers in front of her like she’s going to tell us someone died and speaks in a low voice James Earl Jones would be proud of.
“There will be, under absolutely no circumstances, no hanky-panky whatsoever.”
