Chapter 4

Chapter Four

Whitney

I descended the stairs in the arena until I reached Row 9, just above the Blazers' home bench. Performing drills, the team warmed up. The sharp clack of sticks smacking pucks rose above the thumping beat of rock music. Cold, pungent air wafted off the ice. I was glad I'd worn a Blazers hoodie over my jersey and my ankle boots. I checked my ticket. Seat 3.

An eep sounded from Row 10, Seat 3. I met the gaze of a blonde whose blue eyes widened. "Are you…are you?" she stammered. "Whitney St. James?" She squeaked the last.

"Who?" The brunette next to her tossed a kernel of popcorn into her mouth.

"Only my favorite Regency romance author! I recognize her from social media." The blonde practically vibrated.

I blinked in surprise before nodding and smiling. "Yes, I'm Whitney." I moved out of the aisle to my seat. "What's your name?"

"Hope." She pointed to women left and right. "That's Brynn, Emily, Avery, Mackenzie, and Mia." The women waved or nodded.

I nodded, trying to memorize names and faces.

"We're the girlfriends. And that's Mr. Merriweather beside you."

I peered down at the man sitting in Seat 4 and recognized him as Hudson's grandfather. White hair crowned his head, deep wrinkles radiated from his sagging eyelids, and lines fanned out around his frowning mouth. Gnarled hands clutched a cane standing between his legs. He raised his head from his stooped shoulders and fixed me with a curious stare. "Hudson gave you a ticket? Are you his girlfriend?" His brown eyes lit with hope.

My cheeks heated. I wish! I'd had a crush on him ever since he moved in next door. I'd ogled him in the mailroom, said hello in the hallway, and followed his career. The scandal with the drunken threesome had broken my heart, but every story had two sides. "No, I'm his neighbor."

"Hmph. Well, there's hope for you yet. He's never given a ticket to a girl in San Jose," he muttered. "You must be special."

Could I be special? I sat beside Mr. Merriweather as the team rifled puck after puck at the net, and Hudson defended shot after shot with his glove, stick, and pads.

I pushed my glasses up my nose. "Nothing's getting through him."

"That's my boy." His chin lifted.

"You must be very proud of him."

He squared his slumped shoulders. "Sure am. Raised him since he was five, after my daughter died and her no-good husband neglected him." He thumped his cane on the concrete floor. "Took him to all of his practices and games."

"Well, you did a good job. Look where he is now." Hudson caught a screaming puck in his glove. The thud reached us in the stands. The horn blew to end warm-ups, and Hudson gathered all the pucks into the net. He skated off the ice, limber even in his huge pads.

And if I followed his every move…well…that was my secret.

Mr. Merriweather leaned on his cane and pinned me with his gaze. "You write kissing books," he said, his voice gruff.

I braced myself for criticism or judgment, something all too common for genre fiction writers, especially romance authors. "I do." I prepared to defend my writing.

"From what I heard the other day, you're pretty good at it."

Hope leaned down between us. "She's very good. Her books routinely make the Regency Romance Bestsellers list on Amazon."

I raised my eyebrows and turned to her. "You know that?" I wished I had more fans like Hope, and then maybe I wouldn't be scraping by. The costs of self-publishing were high, and the royalties low.

She hooked a thumb at herself. "Big fan. I can't wait for The Dangerous Duke and the Bluestocking to come out. I pre-ordered it." She beamed at me.

"Thank you! Would you like a bookmark?"

Her eyes widened. "I'd love one!"

I pulled a Whitney St. James bookmark out of my wallet—I was always prepared—and found my pen. I signed my autograph and handed it to Hope.

She squealed and hugged it to her chest. " Big fan."

I chuckled, my heart warming. I never wanted to become complacent about meeting my readers. They inspired me.

"Do you have one of those for me?" Mr. Merriweather managed to sound grumpy and eager at the same time .

"Sure do." I signed one for him, and he tucked it into his Blazers jacket pocket. "Humph."

The lights dimmed, plunging the arena into darkness. A smoking red dragon's head lowered from the rafters, and spotlights flashed and danced around the arena. I closed my eyes until the lights stopped sweeping the audience and the Blazers' pump-up video ran on the Jumbotron. The crowd took to its feet with a roar, but Mr. Merriweather remained seated. I stayed seated with him.

The video ended and the feed focused on the gaping maw of the dragon's head. Hudson shot through the smoke, and goosebumps rose on my scalp. The arena erupted, and I joined in the cheering.

Hudson skated to the net and roughed up the crease while the rest of the team emerged from the smoke.

After the singing of the national anthem, the Blazers' captain, Beck Levesque, met Chicago's captain at center ice.

"You can do it, Beck!" Hope yelled.

I turned toward Mr. Merriweather and raised my eyebrows.

"He's her boyfriend," he shouted above the din of the audience.

Beck won the face-off and smacked it to Chase Reid, who took off toward Chicago's goal.

"And Chase is Emily's boyfriend. You'll learn the couples." He caught my gaze. "Maybe you and Hudson will be a couple? You'd make a good girlfriend."

My cheeks heated. "You don't know me."

He thumped his cane. "I'm a good judge of character. And if Hudson gave you a ticket, he must like you."

Does he? A thrill danced in my tummy .

Chase scored, along with Beck and with Avery's boyfriend, Derek West. The Blazers were up three to two at the end of the third period, and Hudson desperately held on to the lead with forty-four saves. With the clock ticking down the end of the game, Chicago shot one last puck toward Hudson's right shoulder. He caught it on his stick and deflected it over the net in an impossible save. Time expired, and the arena exploded in a thunderous celebration that reverberated through my chest.

The ruckus died down, and the announcer revealed the three stars of the game: Beck, Chase, and Hudson. Hope went wild at the number one star, Beck, and pride filled my chest for Hudson. I caught a smile on his grandfather's wrinkled face. He was eighty-five if he was a day.

"Nice meeting you, Whitney." Hope leaned forward. "I hope to see you again."

"I'd like that." And maybe I'd get to see Hudson again, too.

I turned to his grandfather. "How will you get home, Mr. Merriweather?"

"Call me Gramps." He leaned on his cane and pushed to his feet with a groan. "An usher will escort me to the car Hudson ordered."

"Let's wait for the stairs to clear, and I'll take you."

He nodded and met my gaze with eyes narrowed by sagging eyelids. "I like you. You'll do just fine."

What did that mean?

Once the arena had emptied, we slowly made our way up the stairs, through the mezzanine, and down the stairs to the parking lot. Gramps was huffing and shuffling by then. Maybe I'd ask Hudson to arrange for a wheelchair the next time.

If there was a next time for me.

As soon as we stepped to the curb, a black sedan pulled up. A driver got out and opened the back door. "Good game, Mr. Merriweather."

"Yes, it was, Steve." His voice was thin and tired .

Steve and I helped Gramps into the car.

Once he settled into the leather seat, Gramps pointed at me. "I'll see you again. I'll make sure of it."

Did Gramps want company?

Or was he playing matchmaker?