The puck hit with lethal force, and I savored the slight sting because it meant I had it. I fucking had it.
Coach Hartman blew the whistle and skated over.
“How the hell did you see that?” he asked, taking the puck from my glove.
“He shifted his weight,” I answered.
Coach stared at me with lowered brows, his eyes searching for something that I couldn’t name, and therefore couldn’t produce. Then he nodded slowly and a slight smile lifted the corner of his mouth. “Okay, then.”
He skated off to the bench, and Coach McPherson blew the whistle to start again.
A half hour later, I was dead on my feet, but I’d saved all but one shot.
Zimmerman had the same record.
I sat in the locker room, ignoring the noise of the other players around me, let the sweat drip from my hair, and summoned the energy to move. I’d never played that hard for that long, let alone gone three days in a row at the same pace.
My cell phone buzzed from the locker behind me, and I reached for it out of sheer muscle memory.
Unknown: Did you know that wombats make cube-shaped poop?
What the actual fuck?
I looked up and scanned the room around me, wondering if I had become the next target on Connell’s ever-growing prank list. Guy couldn’t take anything seriously except hockey. When no one so much as looked my way, I fired off a reply.
Sawyer: Who is this?
Unknown: Come on, West Coast, you think I’m going to make it that easy for you?
My smile was instant. I quickly saved her in my contacts, already feeling a little lighter.
Sawyer: You just did. How did you get my number?
Echo: I have friends in cold, icy places.
This time I grinned. She’d asked about me enough to track down one of my friends and get my number.
Echo: I’m guessing you’re still alive?
Sawyer: Just finished. I’ll probably know by tonight.
Echo: Did you know that bananas share fifty percent of their DNA with humans?
I laughed outright, which earned me a few sideways glances from the guys.
Sawyer: You are so random.
Echo: Bet it made you laugh.
Sawyer: It did. Thank you. I’d better hit the showers before you can smell me from down the street.
Echo: Is that you? I wondered what that heinous odor was.
I shook my head, but before I could put my phone away, another text came through.
Echo: Forty-two percent of people admit to peeing in the shower...so be careful in there.
Sawyer: Goodbye, Echo.
Echo: Watch where you step.
Her trick worked. By the time I walked into the shower to rinse off the workout, I was shaking my head at her antics instead of hanging it with worry.
I’d done my best. Worked my ass off and left everything out there on the ice. Now it was out of my hands and in the coaches’.
Three hours later, I sat in an empty conference room at Reaper Arena, staring at the long expanse of mahogany that served as a conference table. I knew Silas had spared no expense when he’d built the arena. Everything from the practice ice to the training room was state of the art. But seeing it up close and personal was awe-inspiring.
I looked at the clock. It had been five minutes since I’d been shown into the room with no explanation from Mr. Silas’s personal assistant. Zimmerman wasn’t here, so I had to assume that he’d had a separate conference room, or his meeting was yet to come.
Either way, I was here for one of two reasons: to be offered a contract, or be sent home to Seattle.
The door opened with a click, and I rose to my feet. My mother would have killed me if I’d stayed sitting while the coaches and Asher Silas himself walked into the room. The coaches both wore their Reaper jackets, while Silas had on a suit that cost more than I’d made all year.
“Sawyer,” Coach McPherson greeted me with a nod that gave nothing away. Guy had to be a kickass poker player.
“Sir,” I answered, reaching across the table to shake his hand, then Coach Hartman’s, and finally Asher Silas’s. It was surprisingly rough for someone who spent all his time making billions in the tech industry.
“It’s nice to finally meet you,” Silas said with a slight smile. “My sister speaks very highly of you.”
“Harper is one of a kind,” I replied with an easy grin.
“She is,” he agreed, releasing my hand and relaxing his stance before they took their seats in front of me.
I sat slowly, concentrating on keeping steady and not shaking like a leaf in a windstorm. NHL goalies didn’t shake. They were steadfast, dependable, the backbones of their teams.
“Eric Gentry told me I’d be an idiot if I didn’t pick you up,” Coach McPherson said, leaning back in his chair.
“Gentry is a phenomenal goalie and a great guy,” I answered, ignoring the invitation to tout my awesomeness. I was good, but I wasn’t Gentry good.