Victor (Chicago Blaze 3)

“I’ve got two games.” I rest my elbows on my spread knees and look down. “If I don’t play like a rock star in the next two games, I’m going to the third line.”

Lindy’s silent for a beat before saying, “The…third line?”

“Yeah.” I sigh heavily. “The reporters will love that. My fall from the top makes for good headlines.”

“Well, stop acting like it’s inevitable!”

Lindy’s tone is admonishing. I turn my face to look at her. Her eyes have their shine again. They’re a pretty swirl of gold and bronze that get brighter when she talks about hockey.

“I’m gonna do my best,” I offer, nodding at her. “I’m not giving up yet.”

“You’re not giving up ever! You’re Victor Lane. You worked your whole life to get here. You walked three miles each way to the rink as a kid. Painted houses during summers in high school to buy your gear.”

I sit up straight, giving her a skeptical look. “How do you know all that?”

Her cheeks flush again as she shrugs. “I read articles about the Blaze. The whole team.”

I groan and grin at the same time. “Not just me?”

Her blush intensifies. “No, not just you.”

“Damn. Thought I had a superfan. Maybe my first stalker.”

“You have lots of superfans.” She gives me a serious look. “Kids wear your name and number on the backs of their shirts at every game. So go out there and Happy Gilmore the hell out of that puck.”

Her reference makes me grin. “That’s one of my favorite movies.”

“Me too.”

“What would Chubbs tell me to do?” I ask, lightly bumping her shoulder with mine. Hers is about six inches lower than mine, so it’s more like my upper arm.

“Ah, you know what he’d say. It’s all in the hips.”

I bust out laughing. Most of the women I talk to are always selling themselves. They pretend to be making conversation about how much they work out or all the places they’ve travelled, but it’s an obvious attempt to make themselves sound amazing.

Lindy is completely down to earth. It’s damn refreshing.

“So I should just tap, tap, tap the puck in, right?” I keep our joke going.

She gives me a pointed look. “I suggest you slapshot it so hard you put a hole through the back of the net.”

“Okay, coach.”

“I know it’s one thing for me to sit here in an empty arena and say it and another thing to actually do it, but…I know you can get your mojo back and then some.”

When I first saw Lindy sitting here, I thought she was just an average woman. Her brown hair is tied back in a ponytail at the nape of her neck and she’s wearing casual clothes. Nothing about her begs to be noticed. But she encourages me with an earnestness that feels…real. Everything about her seems authentic.

“I think you might believe in me more than I believe in myself,” I admit.

“That happens sometimes.”

She puts her palms on her thighs and I see that her nails are unpolished and cut short. I’m not sure when I last saw a woman with natural nails. I think I like it.

“Three years ago, when the Sox fell behind 3-1 in the series, my dad gave up on them,” she says. “Not me. I knew that with Latimer pitching, Game 5 was in the bag. Then they came back home for Games 6 and 7, so homefield advantage. They won it all.”

“So you’re just an optimist. Always rooting for the underdog. Nothing wrong with that.”

“No.” She looks over at me, her expression serious. “I’m a realist. I knew the Patriots would win the Super Bowl last year, even though I wished the Rams would have.”

“Huh. So you’re saying we should hop a flight to Vegas right now, because you could lay some good bets?”

She grins and the pink blush on her face deepens—it seems to be a thing with her. “That sounds a lot better than sanitizing soft serve machines.” She sighs softly. “But I’d bet my next paycheck that you’re gonna play amazing in the next two games.”

“I’ll play my hardest.”

“Remember. First on puck, pass hard and shoot hard. Play every game like it’s your last.”

I chuckle and say, “Yes, sensei.”

Her shoulders slump. “I should get back to work.”

“Do you work this late all the time?”

“No, only once or twice a month.”

She stands up and tucks her phone into the pocket of her hoodie. I stand up, too. With my skates on, I tower over her by more than a foot.

“Hey, seriously,” I say. “Thanks. What you said to me tonight…I needed to hear it.”

Her eyes are bright as she looks up at me. “I believe in you, Victor. And I’m always right about these things. It drives my dad crazy.”

She turns toward the end of the front row and starts walking away.

“Lindy,” I call after her, “will you be watching the St. Louis game?”