Page 2 of Hot Shot
“Okay. I guess,” she says, tucking a stray piece of hair behind her ear. “I’m Madison.” She puts out her hand.
“Hunter. Hunter Rhodes.” I take her hand. It’s soft and smooth like the fresh ice before anyone has skated on it.
The minute our hands connect, I feel a zing up my arm. Curious. I study her face, wondering if she felt it too, but she doesn’t flinch.
“Do we know each other?”Here we go. She’s going to recognize me. She studies me for a beat longer before shaking her head. “Actually, I don’t think so. Sorry. You just looked familiar.”
You idiot.She doesn’t know who you are. You’re not back home where everyone knows you as the former captain of Minnesota State’s hockey team and wants an autograph. You’re nobody here.You haven’t even made your NHL debut.Even after I do, it’s not like that’ll mean anything. I’m just a rookie. A nobody.
“I get that a lot,” I say, adjusting my hat.
She stares at me for another second before nodding and turning back to her car. Before she can unlatch the hood, I make quick work of getting it open and securing it in place. Putting my hand out, I tip my chin toward the bag in her hand.
“I wish I had some way to thank you,” Madison says after I’ve hooked up the jump box. “Oh, wait! I know.” Her face lights up as she opens the driver’s side door again and pulls out a white pastry box.
“Here.” She opens the box to display a gorgeous array of mouth-watering pastries. I spot a couple of scones, éclairs with cream perfectly piped on top, and cream puffs with powdered sugar. They’re almost too pretty to eat.
“Thank you. But I can’t,” I mumble. During the hockey season I watch what I eat. I tried eating whatever in college during my freshman season and ended up feeling sluggish all the time. I learned my lesson quickly, and I’m not about to test it out again. Not with my rookie season starting soon.
“Oh, shit. Are you diabetic? I’m sorry. I didn’t think about that.” She slams the box closed, pulling it closer to her.
“No. Nothing like that.” I chuckle. “I watch what I eat.”
“Okay.” She offers me a small smile. “I can respect that.”
I exhale. I’m glad she doesn’t ask any more questions.
“How about you try your car? See if it’ll start?”
With a nod she climbs in the car and it starts on the first try. I carefully shut the hood and lean down into the open door.
“Seems like your battery is dead. But you should probably get it checked out just in case something else is wrong.”
“Yeah.” She runs her hands through her hair. “I’ll take it to my mechanic.”
I nod and close the door for her.
Rolling down the window, she says, “Thanks, Hunter.”
“Bye, Madison.” I watch as she backs her car out of the spot. I stand there for a few moments lost in thought wondering why I didn’t ask for her number or give her mine. Life here is lonely. Outside of my coaches and teammates this is the longest conversation I’ve had with anyone in person since I’ve moved here. I could definitely do with some more friends.
Honking finally draws me out of my thoughts, and I realize there’s a car that wants the spot Madison vacated. With one last glance at the spot Madison’s car was in a few minutes ago I turn and continue on my way.
“Hey,” I greet Wes, who is leaning against the wall outside the restaurant peering at his phone. Weston “Wes” Reynolds and I have become fast friends the past few weeks, bonding over the fact that we’re the two rookies on the team, and we’re both from up north. He’s from Anchorage although he spent the past two years in upstate New York playing for the Mustangs, the Storm’s AHL team.
“You’re late,” he says, shoving his phone in his pocket and pushing his sunglasses up on top of his head so they hold back his long black hair.
“Yeah. Sorry dude. I stopped to help a woman whose car wouldn’t start.”
He raises his eyebrows but says nothing as we enter the restaurant. We order quickly at the counter and, once we have our food, find a booth in the back.
We eat in silence for a few minutes before Wes says, “I feel like there’s more to the story.”
I chuckle and launch into a recap of the events, skipping over the part where Madison flashed me because that’s something I plan to keep to myself.
“Did you get her number?” he asks between bites of his sandwich.
“No.” I shake my head.
