Page 46 of Shootout
“Those are lofty goals, but you have the ability to achieve whatever you set your mind to.”
Marnie beamed at me, the biggest smile I’d seen on her face in the couple weeks I’d known her. “Would you talk to my dad for me? I don’t want him to transfer me to another class.”
I doubted anything I said would change Boris’s mind. “I’ll see what I can do, but no guarantees.”
“I get it. When it comes to my dad, no one can make any promises.”
I stood and gave her a pat on the back. “I’ll see you next week.”
“Okay.” She slid off the bleachers and clomped toward the locker room ahead of me. I watched her go and hoped like hell I’d find a way to keep her in my group for the remainder of the eight-week session. I had no idea how to achieve that goal, though. Perhaps Banks had some advice.
By the time I arrived at the arena, the game had entered first intermission. I found my way to the WAGs suite, pausing in front of the door to gather up my nerve. I’d hoped to be here early. Instead, I’d be walking in late and drawing unwanted attention to myself.
I stared down at Banks’s jersey, feeling horribly conspicuous wearing his number seven. I closed my eyes for a moment, dug deep within myself, and drew in a calming breath. Releasing it, I reached for the door and pulled it open. I gazed around the sumptuous suite. Comfortable couches formed a U and off to one side was a banquet table loaded with food. On the opposite side was a small bar. On the arena side was tiered seating with an almost center-ice view of the rink. Ethan Parker didn’t spare any dollars when it came to player perks. This WAGs suite was a big one.
An older lady dripping in jewels stood near the buffet table, filling up a plate. She had the air of an older society matron combined with a free spirit. She glanced up when I entered. A welcoming smile lifted the lines on her face. “Hello, dear. Are you lost?”
“This is the WAGs suite, right?” I inched closer. She was somewhat out of the ordinary and anything but matronly. Her fingernails were done in Sockeye colors, and she had hints of blue and green in her fashionably done gray hair. A tat peeked out from the sleeve of her glitter-studded Sockeyes jersey. Her hands were weighted down with more diamonds than I’d ever seen outside of a jewelry store.
“That it is. I’m Agnes.” She threw back her glass of wine, and a staff person instantly plied her with another. “What’s your poison, honey?”
“Uh, a glass of white is fine.” She didn’t give me time to introduce myself.
A second later, I clutched a glass of very nice chardonnay. Nothing but the best for the WAGs, it appeared. I took an appreciative sip and looked up.
Agnes studied me with the shrewd eye of someone who’d seen a lot of life, both good and bad, yet still looked for the good. “And who’s your beau?”
I almost choked on the wordbeau. “The new guy. Banks Slater.”
“Ah, he’s our persona non grata. Single-handedly ruined our chances to go deep in the playoffs last year. Or so they say.”
“Yes, or so they say.”
“You must be Jason’s sister, Jessie.” Obviously, the gossip had gotten around to the WAGs, though Agnes couldn’t possibly be a WAG.
“Nice to meet you, Agnes.”
“You’re a famous skater in your own right. Gold medal winner.”
I nodded, not comfortable talking about my accomplishments in this environment.
“I’m an honorary WAG. The girls adopted me. I live for hockey and try to make all the games. I consider myself the team grandmother.” Agnes belched and put her hand over her mouth but wasn’t the least bit embarrassed. I decided I liked her. A lot.
“That’s wonderful.”
“Let me introduce you to my girls.” Agnes put two fingers in the corners of her mouth and issued an ear-splitting whistle. Heads turned toward us.
“Ladies, this is Jessie Wilder, Banks’s girlfriend and Jason’s sister.” Before I knew it, women gathered around me, making me feel welcome and dispelling any nerves I’d had when I entered.
They peppered me with names. One WAG led me to the buffet table. I’d never remember all their names, but I’d appreciated how nice they were. As the puck dropped for the second period, I was hustled to a seat next to Agnes.
“I’m Hyacinth, in case you forgot. That’s a lot of names to remember at once. Call me Cin.” The woman on the other side grinned at me while keeping one eye on the ice.
“Thank you,” I said gratefully. “And which guy is yours?”
“Steele Bailey, number twenty-three. A second pairing defensemen.” Cin wasn’t your stereotypical WAG. This group broke a lot of stereotypes. She was tiny with jet-black hair, vivid blue eyes, tattoos peeking out from the bottoms of her sleeves and the collar of her number twenty-four jersey. Her makeup was dramatic, and she was beautiful in her own way. I’d have never put her with Steele. What I know of him was a serious, buttoned-up guy, and she was anything but buttoned up. Definitely a case of opposites attracting.
Agnes leaned over and grinned at us. “Cin is a talented seamstress. She’s an artist with a needle and thread.”
