Tomboy

“Be on the ice in five, boys,” the coach said, then turned his attention back to Zach. “Two tickets will be at the will-call window for your nurse tomorrow night. You did invite her to the game, right?”

Zach tossed the roll of tape back into his locker. Del

ay? Him? Always. “Not yet.”

After that photo had hit all the gossip sites, sending his social media notifications into overdrive, according to his agent, who had an intern monitoring those things, the guilt started to sink in. Yeah, he’d reached out to Lucy and confessed that he’d left her bestie hanging in the wind, but like a chickenshit, he’d left the message in a voicemail and who in the world actually checked voicemail?

He should have realized that Lucy hadn’t heard his message when he didn’t hear back. Of course, even if she had, the picture of Fallon and him were all over Harbor City within twenty-four hours. And his attempts to reach Fallon? Nonexistent because there was something about the woman that made him a little bit nervous—a fact that he’d take a puck to the mouth sans mouth guard before admitting out loud.

“Blackburn,” Coach said, sounding exactly like he had when he’d been coaching Zach in juniors. “Why are you always so difficult?”

He glared up at his coach, putting in all the obstinate screw-you attitude he could muster at the moment. “It’s part of my charm.”

Peppers just rolled his eyes. “The woman did you a solid. Say thank you and give her the tickets.”

Coach was almost as bad as that little bit of guilt gnawing on the back of his brain that he hadn’t been able to squash. Fallon might have been a pain in his ass—the kind who didn’t want to be anywhere near him any more than he wanted her to be there—but she wasn’t used to the media hordes. She hadn’t deserved to get chewed up and spit out by the Harbor City sports media.

“Fine,” he said, not showing anything but annoyance—he did still have a sense of self-preservation. “I’ll text her later.”

“Take out your phone and do it now,” Coach said before draining what was in his sure-to-cause-diabetes drink.

Was this guy kidding? What. The. Fuck. “I’m not sixteen anymore. You don’t get to just tell me what to do.”

Coach snorted in that I’m-pretending-to-be-amused-but-I-can-still-kick-your-ass way that he had. “Just do it.”

This was fucking ridiculous. He was a grown-ass man. Who he texted or didn’t text wasn’t any business of anyone else’s—not even the guy who was his coach. And who had gone to bat for him when the front office hesitated about signing him. And who got the team to cover his living expenses. And kept the secret about what Zach’s parents had done. And was more of a father to him than his own dad had been. And…oh, for the love of Wayne Gretzky’s and Martin Brodeur’s love child.

“Fine.” He let out an exaggerated sigh and grabbed his phone from the bench. He didn’t have to scroll long to hit her number in his contacts list, there weren’t enough names in there for that. Then, he thumb typed a quick message.

Zach: U have 2 tickets for tmrw game at will call.

He hesitated and went on.

Zach: Sorry about pics.

He ground his teeth together at the whole rah-rah friendliness vibe of this conversation and took one for the team.

Zach: And thanks for not letting me die.

There. That just about said it all. Hallmark couldn’t have done it better. Also? He wanted to go throw up again. That exchange was about as close to touchy-feely as he got and for damn good reason.

He put his phone back on the bench and looked up at Coach. “Happy now?”

“Not until we beat the Rage tomorrow.” Peppers went to take a drink from his cup and then scowled at it, no doubt because it was empty. “Be sure your Lady Luck is there.”

“She’s not mine.” In fact, Fallon Hartigan was not shy about the fact that she pretty much hated his guts.

Coach shrugged. “But she is lucky. How else do you explain the change in your play?”

He picked up the roll of white tape because in a hockey locker room there was no shame in being superstitious. It was weirder if a member of the team wasn’t. “This.”

“Nope.” Peppers shook his head. “For that one-eighty you needed more than tape. You needed Lady Luck.”

That was a bunch of bullshit. Still, he couldn’t help but let Coach’s words roll over and over in his head as he watched the older man walk away to go have what Coach called “little chats” (translation: bossing-around sessions) with another player.

Fallon Hartigan as his Lady Luck? No way. No fucking way. And he’d prove that against the Rage tomorrow night.

…