Chapter 18

18

ELLA

Carlos’s sister offers a friendly wave and instantly weaves her arm through mine, leading us in the opposite direction. “Chuck said you needed an assist.”

I glance over my shoulder, but the guys are gone. “Chuck?” I ask, barely able to keep up with all the new people.

“My brother.”

“Carlos?”

They have the same laugh and hers echoes in yet another hallway we enter. “He’s been in love with Marisol for far too long and has been embracing all things Spanish-related. Our mom is Colombian, but we have the vocab of five-year-olds. Marisol is second-gen Mexican, so you can imagine how he’s trying to appeal to her heritage. Let me guess, he gave you a nickname.”

“Ella Bella.”

“That’s better than what he calls me.” But she doesn’t say what. “Brothers, am I right?”

“I’m an only child. ”

“You’re lucky. I just wish all these hockey players didn’t think of me as a little sister.” She lets out a forlorn sigh.

I’m guessing that means none of them have ever blown her a kiss after scoring a goal.

“Despite what Chuck might say, my name is Leah.”

“Nice to meet you.”

We make a few more turns. I’m lost in the maze-like building before we take an elevator up a few floors. “Where are we going?”

“Where the food is, of course.” Her dark hair, pulled back in a high ponytail bobs as she leads the way.

We end up in a large room on an upper floor. A wall of windows overlooks the city with its sparkly lights. A woman around our age, dressed in a black caterer’s uniform, sets out a tray of sugar cookies decorated to look like hockey pucks with the Carolina Storm logo.

Leah says, “You should ask Jack about the New Year’s party they had here. I heard it was wild. Usually, after the games, the team hosts a get-together. A lot of the players go off and do their own thing, especially if they lose, but I figured we’d scrounge the dessert table instead of loitering in the hallway.”

My first thought is how much I already like Leah. My second fills me with worry.

“But are we supposed to be here? Are you dating someone on the team?” I belatedly realize probably not, considering her sigh earlier.

Again, she crows a laugh. “I wish. Well, not this team. I mean, I’m not going to be super picky because marrying a hockey player is my life goal.”

I wait for her to tell me she’s joking, but it doesn’t come.

“I live in Nebraska, so I’d prefer a Knight. I mean, doesn’t every girl dream of a knight in shining armor coming to her rescue?” Leah’s voice trills .

“Not in so many words, but I guess so.” I also think of finding Jack stuck in the sand and how he said I’d rescued him. Really, I just sat in the driver’s seat, but he wouldn’t have been able to get out of the hole on his own.

Now I’m here. My confusion and frustration wear off as Leah makes us a plate of goodies, complete with cookies, Rice Krispies Treats, blue velvet mini cupcakes, and pretzel rods coated in chocolate and sprinkles. Bark Wahlburger gets a butter cookie.

“So, are you sure it’s okay that we’re in here?” I ask, ever vigilant.

“You’re definitely welcome as the recently crowned ‘Puck Princess.’”

“Puck what? I thought it was puck bunny.”

“That’s something else. Technically, I’m a puck bunny, but not really.” Her nose twitches.

I squint, hoping she’ll explain.

“There’s nothing wrong with puck bunnies per se, but it depends on the team. For instance, the culture for some teams is a gal for every guy post-game. They’ll just pair up, go off, and—” She wiggles her fingers vaguely.

Jack and I kissed, and it felt genuine, but puck bunnies, players, and wiggle fingers—whatever those are—were not in the original, non-existent contract!

Leah continues, “There’s a mixture of guys who’re in relationships, whether serious or casual, but the puck bunnies throw themselves at anyone in skates. For others, the puck bunnies are super fans and just really appreciate the game and the guys but are waiting to be noticed. Chosen, you might say.” She sighs and chucks a handful of snack mix in her mouth.

I take it Leah is in the last group.

“However, you’re a puck princess, which is like the crowning glory of all the women who want to be among the WAGs.”

“You’ll have to speak English.”

“As I mentioned, my parents speak Spanish but didn’t pass it along to my siblings and me.”

We both chuckle.

“No, I mean, what’s WAGs?

“Wives and girlfriends.”

I press my hand to my chest. “Oh, I’m not?—”

Holding a pretzel rod with white chocolate and sprinkles in the team colors on the end, she waves it around like a wand. “The jersey is the perfect fit.”

I pinch the shoulders of the garment and hold it in front of me. “It’s huge.”

“And you should put it back on.”

Voices carry from beyond the door. I eye it cautiously, worried we’re about to get caught and kicked out.

“If you don’t, they’ll have you surrounded. Trust me.”

I scramble to put the jersey back on as a large group of people come in—some definitely hockey players with the same build as Jack, along with at least two dozen women all wearing less clothing than advisable in a hockey rink. Then again, it’s warmer in this room. There are also a variety of people I assume are friends, family, and management, like Carlos. He waves but doesn’t come over as he has what looks like an intense conversation with a curly-haired man.

“I’ve lived a divided life for too long,” Leah says dramatically.

“What do you mean?”

She absently pets Bark Wahlburger as if used to having a dog nearby. “I’m a fan of the Knights, but because Chuck gets tickets to any game that Jack plays, I go to as many as my airline miles will allow, but my heart belongs in Nebraska. ”

“Are any of these players on the Knights?”

“No, they’re likely already on their way home. They don’t party.”

“Seems pretty tame right now to me.”

“Give it an hour.”

But what she said about traveling with her brother brings to mind Jack’s offer to play for the Knights. That would mean Carlos would be based in Nebraska, giving her a greater chance of meeting the hockey player of her dreams. She seems sweet and I hope she gets her happily ever after.

“But as I was saying … See? They didn’t descend because Jack made it clear that you’re not available. Even though the Storm plays dirty, they’d never do him dirty. Though it looks like some of the women are curious about who caught superstar Bouchelle’s heart.”

I glance around and there is more whispering and staring like in the VIP box. “I don’t think I’ve caught anyone’s eyes or heart?—”

Leah’s eyebrows lift and I half expect her to pat me on the head and say, There, there, little Puck Princess. Stop denying what’s obvious . But do I want to?

Instead, she says, “The thing about being the puck princess is that the jersey is perfect on you. I’m an expert when it comes to these things. Countless women have worn number ten’s sweater—that’s hockey slang—but it never quite looked right. Too baggy in places, sagged in others.”

I’m not about to tell her that Jack paid me to wear it, but I do start to protest.

She shakes her now-stubby pretzel rod at me. “Listen, Bouchelle’s jersey is like a glass slipper scenario.”

“That doesn’t make sense. His jersey is neither glass nor is it a slipper.”

She rolls her eyes. “Details shmeetails. Without realizing it, he’s been looking for the woman who it’ll fit, traveling over hill and dale, across the country, seeking the woman who’ll be a hit.” Leah pulls a face as if well aware of how cheesy that sounds.

But if that’s true, why me?

I ask, “So, he’s a bit of a player, then?”

“Was. Complete with a warren of puck bunnies. Something changed in the last few years. As I said, I pay attention to these things. So far, I’ve successfully matched three hockey players and their wives. Still waiting on my own.”

This gives me the impression that Jack has a playboy reputation, but what about the first kiss a year ago and recently? My pulse jitters. I swipe a cookie off the plate. Is Jack another version of Slater?

Leah says, “Jack Bouchelle’s jersey is the stuff of legends. Some say it’s woven with real silver thread. Others avow that she who wears it will unlock treasures beyond her wildest dreams and be granted three wishes.”

“Now, you’re just messing with me.”

Leah looks me straight in the eyes. “He’s never asked a woman to wear the jersey. He’s never had a woman in the VIP box. EVER. They just kind of gather, orbiting him, but I checked with Carlos. He confirmed these facts.”

Does that make me special or is this just a convenient arrangement for his career? After all, I am being paid to wear it.

Leah says, “But the story about Jack’s jersey that I think is true is that whoever wears it will be married to him within the year.”

“There were at least a hundred women in the arena wearing it.”

She arches an eyebrow. “True, but none of them are you.”

“What does that mean?”

“He asked you to wear his jersey … and it fits.” Leah points to the women across the room, busy on their phones and surreptitiously glancing at us every few minutes. “They know it. I know it. Jack knows it.”

“Is the legend of his jersey something he devised? If so, that’s pretty self-aggrandizing.”

“No, of course not. It’s bunny lore.”

If all this is true and this is a first for Jack, why is he paying me? “My life isn’t a fairytale where I fall in love at first sight or with the first guy who skates into my life. He doesn’t even have a powerful steed,” I say, expanding the metaphor.

“But he’s a powerful player,” Leah says.

“He doesn’t have a sword.”

“If he joins the Knights, he will, in a way. Their logo is a sword crossed with a hockey stick.”

“That means a new jersey,” I say, stupidly worried about whether it’ll fit. I press my hand to my forehead.

“That means a happily ever after.”

Wearing jeans and a hoodie, Jack appears from the now crowded room. A few of the women who Leah pointed out abruptly get to their feet and approach him, but he makes a beeline for me, sending my pulse buzzing.