Caged (Gold Hockey #11) - Elise Faber Page 0,69

just added, “Especially when cornered.”

Brit’s face smoothed out, shock in her eyes.

Then she nodded approvingly. “Yeah, Eth,” she said, punching him on the shoulder, “I am so glad I’m helping you with this.”

The game ended up in a shootout, one they’d lost, much to Brit’s consternation.

But the season was long, and they were in the early days yet. They always wanted the two points, but they’d take one, and a game where they’d ultimately played well, followed their system, even though the bounces hadn’t gone their way.

That happened sometimes.

The Hockey Gods weren’t smiling down at them, or whatever.

Still, they weren’t professional athletes because they liked losing. It stung like hell, especially in the close ones, but Ethan, at least, had gotten better at compartmentalizing it away. He’d have tape to watch, a practice or two to try and flush out those mistakes, and then they’d have another game in two night’s time.

Play hard. Take the licks. Rework the negative. Highlight the positive.

And do it all over again.

Done.

In the meantime, though, he needed to hope that his parade of gifts had begun the process of winning Dani over, because he needed to see her, needed to talk to her, needed to fix this . . . with more words and fewer presents.

“Ethan!”

He glanced behind him, stopping on the threshold of the locker room.

Scarlett, PR-Rebecca’s assistant, her hair as red as her name, hustled up, clutching an iPad in one hand, using her other to push up her glasses. Her blue eyes shone with worry.

“What’s up?” he asked, stepping toward her.

“I fucked up,” she whispered, darting a glance over her shoulder. “I am so getting fired. This is the first time I’ve been on my own, and Rebecca finally trusted me to pick up some of her slack, and I am so totally going to get fired.” She groaned, and he figured she was approximately a millisecond from freaking out.

Which was why he just crouched a little bit, enough to meet her blue eyes, and asked, “What can I do to help?”

“You’re late for a meet-and-greet,” she hissed. “A meet-and-greet,” she added in reply to what was no doubt a confused expression on his face, since he didn’t have any fan interactions scheduled. He always received notice before, always had them cleared with him just in case . . . and ah, he realized, finally comprehending her miserable expression, that was her fuck up.

“You’re going to tell Rebecca, aren’t you?” she asked dejectedly.

He patted her shoulder. “Let’s worry about the fans before we panic about Rebecca,” he said. “Give me the specifics.”

She rattled them off.

“Okay,” he said, stripping off his jersey. “I’ve got this.”

And truthfully, he didn’t mind this kind of thing. He wasn’t a big draw, so these interactions weren’t frequent enough to be draining, and when they involved kids, like tonight’s, they were extra special.

“You’re definitely going to report me, aren’t you?” she asked morosely, as they walked down the hall. “It’s my fault. I didn’t tell—”

His shoulder pads were driving him crazy, so he took those off next. “If you can get these to Richie”—the equipment manager—“then we’ll call it even.”

“That’s not—”

“It’s fine,” he said, squeezing her hand. “I promise you, this is fine.”

“You’ll still tell Rebecca, won’t you?”

Ethan paused, considered that. “I’ll have to if she asks,” he said truthfully. “But I don’t see why she’d specifically ask about this. She’ll ask if you did your job well. She’ll want to know that you care about the team as much as she does.” He squeezed her shoulder. “And my answer to both of those will be yes.”

Relief slid through her expression.

“You good with the gear?” he asked, less because he needed her to take care of his shoulder pads and more because he felt like she needed something to do that wasn’t worrying about stepping into PR-Rebecca’s shoes.

“I’m good,” she whispered.

“Thanks,” he said, handing them to her, and then he moved toward the teeny, tiny little girl and her mom, crouching down to talk about his three favorite things: hockey, more hockey, and . . . YouTubers.

Grinning over the girl’s—Catherine’s—head, he saw her mom sigh and open her mouth, like she was going to interrupt, but he shook his head, letting her know it was all good, and then listened as Catherine explained what sounded like a very intense trick shot that had been performed by her favorite, yup, he’d guessed it, YouTuber. “Do you think you could do it?” she asked once she’d finished.

He solemnly shook his