Surviving The Rachel - The Definition of Icing - The Aubrey Rules - Breakout
Chapter One
The One Online Dating Service
Profile Question:
Which season is
your favorite? Spring, summer, winter, or fall?
My write-in answer: Hockey
Season.
This
feels like home.
I can’t explain why, but there’s something
magical about being at an ice rink. The cold,
bracing air. The crisp scent of a fresh sheet of ice. The sound of
skates cutting against the surface.
I draw the air in deep and slowly exhale.
I’m truly in my happy place now.
I move down the steps, already knowing where
I’m going to sit. I adjust the strap on my tote bag to keep it up on my shoulder and zero in on my favorite seats in
the Dallas Demons practice facility.
Center ice.
I take a seat, close to last row at the top,
and set my gingerbread latte down next to me. I open my tote and retrieve my
iPhone, a pen, and my notebook, placing them in my lap.
And as soon as the Demons take to the ice to
practice this Saturday morning, I’ll start shooting.
I tug down on the long sleeves of my
black-and-white-striped T-shirt, the one I’ve layered under a white cropped
chunky sweater this morning on this chilly November day. I have loved hockey since I was a little girl, when my dad took me to my first Demons
game. My goal is to work in sports TV someday. And in my dream, I’m working as
an editor on hockey productions.
But two years after graduating from TCU, I’m
still stuck taking freelance jobs doing graphics and design work for corporate
accounts. I’m lucky to get the experience, I know that. But the work is
mind-numbing. I’m not excited about what I do, and I ache to edit again.
I smile to myself as I think about it. I love editing. I enjoy the challenge of
laying down video, set to the right music, with the perfect graphics to provide
a punch to a viewer within seconds. I love
working on opens—the opening sequence to get the viewer set for
the show—and who would think that it
can take days to get that forty-five-second piece done just right?
My phone vibrates in my lap. I glance down and
see it’s my roommate and best friend, Kenley.
“Hello?” I say into my cell while reaching for
my coffee and taking a sip.
“Hi, Lexi,” Kenley says in a rush. “I know you
are at practice shooting, so I’ll be quick.”
I smile. My best friend knows I come to every
Demons Saturday practice when they are in town, because it’s a great chance to
record some videos for me to practice my edits on and save to my YouTube
channel. I might be doing bank websites now, but I’m determined to fight my way
into the doors of the Dallas office of Total Access Total Sports.
“No worries, what’s up?” I say, picking up on
the excited tone in her voice.
“I just landed a huge event for Confection
Consultations,” Kenley explains, referring to her chocolate and dessert
consulting business. “I’ve been asked by the Demons for Dallas Foundation to
coordinate all the dessert tables for Casino Night with the Dallas Demons!”
“Kenley, that’s huge,” I cry, excited for her. “Does Nate know yet?” I ask,
referring to her boyfriend, Nate Johansson, who happens to be one of the
superstars of the Dallas Demons.
I smile at the irony. I’ve been a fan my entire
life. Kenley barely watched hockey for more than five minutes prior to meeting
Nate. But not only does she end up meeting a Dallas Demon but falling madly in
love with one.
In the meantime, I’m in the stands shooting
them.
But there’s no doubt Nate and Kenley were meant
to be, and I’m so happy for them.
I bite my lip. And maybe, just maybe, I can find my own Nate someday.
“No, he doesn’t,” Kenley says, interrupting my
thoughts. “I texted him to call me when he’s done with practice. I’m so excited
about this. I want to make Nate proud, you know?”
I grin. “He’s already proud of you. Now you get
to show everyone in the Demons organization how crazy talented you are.”
“You’re coming to this event with me,” Kenley
says. “And then you can drool all over Harrison Flynn all you want.”
I feel my cheeks burn hot. Harrison Flynn is
the captain of the Dallas Demons, and he’s smoking
hot. Kenley knows he’s my celebrity crush, and what makes this whole thing
even weirder is that Kenley is now friends with Harrison’s wife, Kylie. And I
actually got to meet Harrison and Kylie in a social setting last week, at a
party at Nate’s house, and all I could think of was how surreal the whole scene
was.
My
life really is like that stupid Kevin Bacon separation game,
I muse wryly. But all roads lead back to
the Dallas Demons instead of Kevin Bacon.
“Shut up,” I say, grinning.
Kenley laughs. “Okay, I’ve got to go. I need to
start planning this menu. And you are
coming, Lexi Nicole Stewart. So don’t even try to fight me on it.”
“Ha, I
know you’re serious when you use my full name.”
“Indeed.”
We hang up, and I swipe open the video recorder on my phone. The players take to the ice,
and I spot Nate and Harrison right away. Nate sees me and waves, and I wave
back.
Harrison waves at me, too.
I give an embarrassed smile back, thinking of
all the pictures of him I have stashed on my iPhone.
Thank
God he doesn’t have the ability to read
minds, I think wryly.
But it’s still so insane to
think I know him on a social level. And Nate. Dallas Demons. I hang out with them now,
not simply shoot them, and I can’t wrap my head around it yet.
Just like I can’t wrap my head around the fact
that Kenley’s sister, Amanda, is married
to Ryan, a producer at Total Access Total sports.
The place I dream of working someday.
And while Ryan has kept his eyes open for me at
Total Access Total Sports, nothing has come up that I would be a fit for.
Damn
it.
So all roads around me lead to the Dallas
Demons, except for the one I’m driving on apparently.
I reach inside my tote and fumble around for my
hairband. I retrieve it, then take a quick glance around the rink as I wind my
long auburn hair into a messy knot at the nape of my neck. I recognize a lot of
the people: the ones who always come to take pictures with their professional
gear, the hardcore fans, girls chasing players, and of course, me, the nerd
doing video edits.
I’m about to start shooting when my phone beeps
with a message. I check and roll my eyes. It’s another prompt question from The
One Online Dating Service. And for the 107th time since I signed up,
I question my sanity. I’ve met nothing but freaks and liars through their
service, and the questions they prompt are supposed to help match me with The
One. I put in my cancellation notice last week, but for some wacky reason I
keep getting these questions. So now I answer them in my head purely for my own
entertainment.
Like what guy, outside of the ones here, would
love my answer of Hockey Season as the best season of all? In Texas? Yeah, right. This is football country. So not many. And
while I love the idea of the right guy coming along, as I want what Kenley has
with Nate and Amanda has with Ryan, the odds of The One suddenly falling into
my lap are about . . . zero.
I delete the stupid question and go back to
shooting.
I start focusing on different players, video
the coaches instructing the drills, and record some fun shots of Nate and
Harrison goofing around in a hockey stick battle like two little boys. I make a
note to show Kenley that when I see her at home later today. She’ll love it.
Then I capture some beautiful slapshots by Matt
Rhinelander. The young forward is crazy talented, but from what I’ve gleaned
from social media, he’s a bit wild. But hell, he’s twenty-one and has barely
turned that. I’m only twenty-four, but I’ve always been older than my years.
And I never had to grow up with all social media focused on me, either.
I think of a great song to match with his
wicked slapshot and reach for my notebook to jot it down. I rest my phone on my
lap and flip the page over. This song would be per—
“Puck!” a baritone voice from behind me yells.
Right as I jerk my head up, a guy is over the
top of me, shoving me down into the metal bleacher. I lose my balance and fall
backward, with the guy landing on top of me. I bang my head, my phone goes
sailing, and so does my coffee as I feel it splatter against my hand.
I hear the puck ricochet off the bleacher
behind me, creating a loud bang as the frozen puck bounces off the metal.
And that puck would have hit me in the head if
this guy hadn’t pushed me down.
“I’m so sorry,” the guy murmurs as he pushes
himself up. “I didn’t want you to get hit, and I reacted. Are you okay? Did I
hurt you?”
Oh my God.
I can’t think.
My head is smarting but that’s irrelevant.
Because right in front of me is the hottest guy
I’ve ever seen.
And his incredible blue eyes—ones the color of the
deep Mediterranean Sea—are
waiting for me to answer.