It was also Luke’s first time in the play-offs since the worst night of his life. Three years had passed, but the wound was still as fresh as ever.
He shoved the nightmarish memory back into the mental penalty box where it belonged, barely aware he’d reached for his helmet until he caught himself brushing his thumb across the number ten sticker he’d placed inside it—a talisman to keep him focused. With a sigh, he reached up and set his helmet on the shelf above his head.
He was the team captain now, he reminded himself. He had a job to do and he couldn’t afford to wallow in personal issues. You couldn’t lead a team to victory if they didn’t trust you to take care of business. And yet he didn’t seem to be leading the team anywhere but to an early play-off exit. They all needed to get their heads out of their asses.
“We won’t be in the play-offs for long if we keep playing like we just did. I know there are some nerves in the room. This franchise has never been in the play-offs before, and no one here has ever won a championship. None of that matters. We need to play our game, stay hungry and determined.
“And we can’t get sidetracked by the increased media scrutiny. Especially now that even the non-sports media are hunting for stories and interviews. The blonde out there actually asked me if I thought we lost because I’m not growing a play-off beard.”
The entire dressing room went silent as Luke untied his skate. He glanced around at his eerily quiet teammates. “What?”
“Well, we did lose...”
Luke’s face twisted with disgust. “Are you kidding me? It’s the first game! None of you even have beards yet. You guys really buy into this ‘no shaving’ bull?”
The rookie stroked his pitiful day’s worth of stubble. “All I know is that I’m in this to win this, and if sportin’ a Grizzly Adams gets me closer to a championship, then I’m on it like STDs on a hooker.”
“You realize that three out of four women hate beards, right?” Luke pulled his skate off, hating that he’d actually reduced himself to quoting stats from that reporter.
Sillinger got a philosophical look on his face. “Shave and you get laid for a night. Do what it takes to score a championship ring, and you’ll be up to your balls in puck bunnies for the rest of your life. I mean, seriously, Mags. A woman with a body like that reporter’s names me her ‘hockey hottie of the month,’ and I’ll answer any stupid question she asks.”
Luke paused in the act of loosening his other skate. “What are you talking about?”
“Are you serious?” Sillinger’s surprise was obvious. “Holly Evans? The Women’s Hockey Network?”
Luke gave a bewildered shrug.
“Dude, she’s all over YouTube! She does this girly hockey-analysis show that’s gone viral. And in it, she named you the hottest hockey player in the league. The top brass practically begged her to be our web reporter during the play-offs! Do you guys believe this? Hot Stuff here doesn’t even know who Holly Evans is!”
The announcement set off a round of catcalls and ribbing. Luke turned to his linemate, Eric Jacobs. The stoic centerman gave a shrug of his big shoulders and shook his head. Luke was relieved he wasn’t the only one out of the loop on this.
“Okay, okay.” Luke waited for the dressing room to quiet. “Let’s stay focused, guys. The game might be over, but we’ve still got work to do.”
Work that involved hours of ripping apart the carcass of the worst game they’d played all year. The assembled jackals—uh, reporters—were going to eat him alive, Luke thought soberly. He shed the rest of his equipment and headed for the showers.
But that was the price of the C on his jersey. The price of earning a living doing what he loved. Which was an honor and a privilege, considering some people never got that chance. And others had it stolen from them. Luke sighed.
At least the evisceration wouldn’t have anything to do with beard statistics and superstitious nonsense. And yet somehow Luke sensed that Holly Evans was a bigger threat than all the other sports reporters combined...
“THE STORM ESSENTIALLY played an entire period shorthanded, which, given the dismal play of your PK unit, definitely contributed to tonight’s loss. Can you give us any insight as to what led to this unprecedented number of penalties for the Storm?”
Holly hit the pause button on last night’s broadcast and whirled on the couch to face her best friend, Paige Hallett. “Did you hear that? That was my question. Corey Baniuk just asked Luke Maguire my question. And did the dumb jock walk away without a word? No. He stood there and answered it, the jerk!”
“You asked him that question and he ignored you?” Paige looked offended on her behalf.
“Well, no. I asked him if he thought he might grow a play-off beard—then he ignored me. But that’s the question I wanted to ask him. That was a great question!”
Paige turned back to the magazine she was perusing. “I’ll take your word for it. He lost me when he started talking about China. Besides, why would the Storm play a whole period shorthanded? Seems kind of counterproductive to me.”
Holly sighed and set the remote on her coffee table. “They didn’t play an actual period shorthanded, they got twenty penalty minutes, so over the course of the game, they essentially played a man short for the length of a period. And he didn’t say Peking, he said PK unit. When a team gets a penalty, they put out their best penalty killers, their penalty kill unit.”
“Oh. Well, why didn’t he just say that?”
“He did! He did say that, and Luke Maguire answered him, because it was a relevant question asked by a serious sports reporter.”
Paige shot her a sympathetic look. “You’re a serious sports reporter.”
“No, I’m a traitor to my gender. Last night I wore a tiny suit and high shoes and made a mockery of everything I love.”
“Would you cut yourself some slack? Those were some seriously great shoes I picked out for you to wear. Besides, the only way you’re truly a traitor to your gender is the complete lack of readable magazines in your house.” Paige held up the Sports Illustrated she was flipping through as proof. “Seriously. If these guys weren’t shirtless, I’d throw this across the room in protest. Oh, wow.” A dreamy smile spread across Paige’s pretty face. “Who is that? Come to momma.”
Holly glanced over at the glossy, two-page spread featuring a certain hot, shirtless hockey player. His brown hair was the perfect length between shorn and shaggy, his blue eyes intense as ever. He was sitting in the dressing room, kitted out in hockey gear from the waist down—pants, socks and skates—and all muscle and beautiful bronzed skin from the waist up. Behind him, his last name and a big number 18 gleamed white against the navy of his Storm jersey.
“That’s Luke Maguire. The topic of my diatribe for the last twenty minutes? The man currently paused on my television?” Holly gestured at his stupid handsome face in HD.
“Well, why didn’t you tell me he was so yummy? I would have paid better attention.” She glanced at the television, presumably for the first time since her arrival. “Mmm. Maybe you were right. I should watch more hockey.”
Holly couldn’t help but smile. She had been trying to open Paige up to the wonders of sports for the better part of a decade now. How had Holly not realized the best way to turn Paige on to sports was to turn Paige on? “You’re incorrigible, you know that?”
Paige