Victor (Chicago Blaze 3)

Victor doesn’t score again, but he holds his own. And when the Blaze celebrate their 4-2 win, his expression is light—completely different than it was when he practiced on his own last night.

He looks so happy. And in my fictional world, he’ll go have dinner with his teammates and then go back to his room, where he’ll have a thought or two about that nice woman from Concessions who gave him advice before drifting into a peaceful sleep.

I’m not good with the nonfictional reality—that his celebrating will likely involve a woman. It’s been am amazing twenty-four hours. I want to end it on a good note.Chapter EightVictorI survived.

It’s been more than a week since I scored against St. Louis, and I’ve stayed hot since. I scored two goals and had two more assists in the last three games.

Coach slapped me on the back and told me my first line spot is safe—for now. In pro hockey, that’s as much security as any of us ever get. It’s an honor to play at this level, but that honor comes with pressure that never lets up. You’re only as good as your last game.

“You’re coming out with us tonight,” Easy says as we both shower in the Toronto locker room after a 3-2 win.

“I just want to eat and go to bed,” I say, not even looking over.

“Bars have food.”

I laugh. “Yeah, and booze. And before you know it, it’s 3:00 a.m. and you can’t even remember what city you’re in.”

“I’ll write it on a little piece of paper you can put in your pocket. Then you’ll know when the time comes.”

Running my hands through my hair, I rinse the last of the shampoo out and run my hands down my face to clear away the lather of suds.

“I’m tired, man.” I turn the shower handle, stopping the flow of hot water. “Another time.”

Easy shakes his head. “You’ve been clutch lately, Vic. Let’s celebrate.”

His smile is warm and genuine. That’s just like Easy—to be happy I got my mojo back even though it means he doesn’t get to move up to the first line. He’s a team player, and an all-around good guy.

“I’m dying for a big steakhouse dinner. I’m starving. We can celebrate with a big-ass basket of bread. C’mon man, bread!”

I wrap a towel around my waist as Easy turns off his shower. He gives me that trademark grin of his—perfect white teeth.

“Mia’s here,” he says. “Anton’s not going out to dinner with you. And Luca’s got a Facetime date with his woman.”

“Shit.”

Easy opens his hands, still grinning. “You’re stuck with me, bro.”

His use of the word “bro” makes me laugh. Easy attended private prep schools as a kid. He has a French accent, but he also speaks several other languages. He’s just too damned refined to use certain words, but he tries.

“Alright, I’ll go,” I concede, “if you say ‘cocksucker.’”

He rolls his eyes. “Really?”

“Really.”

“Fine, I’ll use it in a sentence, how’s that? You, Victor Lane, are a cocksucker.”

I belt out the best laugh I’ve had in a while. With his accent, it sounds like ‘coke sucka.’ Never gets old.

After I dress in a black suit with a white shirt and red tie, a PR person from our team gets me for interviews. I haven’t been getting interview requests much this season, so it feels pretty good.

When I answer a few questions on camera for a TV reporter, I’m saying all the right stuff, but wondering in the back of my head if Lindy will see it.

I’ve thought about her every day since the night we met. Her advice was good, and it was right on. But it wasn’t anything I didn’t know already. I needed to hear it, but I think what helped me the most was her confidence in me. Part of the reason I played so hard against St. Louis was that I wanted her to be right for believing in me. I wanted to make her proud.

I’ve wished more than once that I could text her to say thanks again. When I think about getting her number somehow, though, there’s a voice in my head that says I should leave it alone. That chance encounter was exactly what I needed exactly when I needed it. I don’t want to mess with it.

“Hey, douchebag, let’s go,” Knox says gruffly. “I need some pussy. We’re waiting on you.”

Unlike Easy, Knox is right at home throwing around every uncouth word he knows in conversation. He’s a dark, hairy giant with a temper. We like to call him the Missing Link. Mostly because it aggravates the shit out of him.

It takes two Ubers to get all of us to the bar we’re meeting up with some fans at. A bunch of hardcore Chicagoans drove up here for the game. I’m not planning to drink tonight, but I do like hanging out with the faithful.