You Had Me at Hockey (Bears Hockey #2) - Kelly Jamieson Page 0,9
I’d also like to go to a New York Yankees game.”
I smile. “That’s more what I expected to hear.”
He smiles back. Some kind of vibrating connection stretches between us. Damn, even though he doesn’t show it much, he has a nice smile. And teeth.
I need to focus. “Okay, here’s my first hockey question.”
“I’m ready.”
A smile tugs at my lips. “Why do hockey players spit so much?”
His mouth opens, then closes. “I did not expect that.”
I laugh again.
“It’s because…uh…mucus builds up. It does for anyone who works out at a high intensity, especially in the cold. You gotta either swallow it or spit it out.”
“Gross.”
A smile tugs his mouth. “Yeah, it is.”
“Have you ever spit on someone by accident?”
“Oh yeah. And I’ve been nailed, too.”
“Oh.” Okay, mind out of the gutter.
“Also, we drink water or Gatorade, but you don’t want to drink too much because it weighs you down, so you swish it in your mouth and spit it out.”
“Also gross. I am not offended, however. Maybe more impressed.” This handsome, well-dressed man sitting across from me does not look like someone who drops loogies.
He chuckles. “I admit, it’s not the nicest habit. There’s also the smelling salts ritual.”
“Smelling salts.” I lean forward, fascinated. “Seriously? Like what the Victorians used to revive a woman who’d fainted?”
“Yep. I honestly don’t know the scientific explanation, but lots of players do it because they think it improves their performance.”
“Not you?”
“Nah. I tried it. Damn, it hurts—my eyes wouldn’t stop watering. I’m not sure if it’s just a gimmick or really works, but hey, we all have our rituals.”
“And it’s legal.”
Another laugh. “Yeah, it’s legal.”
“You mentioned rituals. Do you have any strange rituals?”
His face tightens, but he keeps his tone casual. “I do have a game-day routine I like to stick to.”
“No crazy superstitions?”
“Sure. I always grow a beard in the playoffs.”
I study his face with the neatly-trimmed facial hair. “That’s what I expected you to look like! A big, long beard and no teeth.”
He taps his index finger to his front teeth. “These are all mine.”
“What other superstitions do you have?”
“You can’t touch the Stanley Cup unless you win it.”
I nod. “Okay. Any more personal ones?”
“I’m pretty picky about how I tape my stick. Everyone does it differently. I have to do it the same way every time, heel to toe, black tape, and I have my own way of shaping the knob.”
I blink. “Really.”
For a split second I can tell we’re both thinking the same thing. The air around us crackles.
“And no one can touch my stick after I tape it.”
“So here’s a question…why do you tape your stick?”
“Tape on the blade helps you feel the puck better, gives you more puck control. And on the shaft, it gives a better grip.”
It’s not often I am rendered speechless, but that moment has arrived.
Is he doing this on purpose?
“And then you tape the butt.”
I choke. “Oh my God.”
“You create a knob on the end, to keep your hands from slipping off.”
I’m dying. “Soooo…a sticky shaft is a good thing?”
His face is serious, but his eyes twinkle and I know he knows what he’s saying. “But not too sticky. I have to be able to slide my hands down the shaft when I need to.”
I can’t stop the laughter that spills out of me, falling back into my chair.
“And I just need a small bump on the butt, but goalies have to have a big knob.”
“Oh my God,” I gasp. “This is the best interview ever.”
Josh is laughing too now, and for some reason I have the feeling he hasn’t done that for a while. I had to fight for the barest hint of a smile when he came into the waiting room earlier.
I glance over at Oliver, who’s also cracking up.
“I’m crying,” I say into the microphone while I wipe my eyes. “Literal tears. I need to get a grip.” I compose myself. “Okay, Josh, tell us where you were born.”
“Winnipeg, Canada.”
“And apparently you come from a big family of hockey players.”
“Yeah. My dad and my three uncles all played in the NHL.”
“Is that a lot of pressure to live up to?”
His mouth tightens and his eyes flicker. I’m so curious about what he’s thinking. It doesn’t seem like a tough question. “It could be,” he says easily, belying his facial expression. “But I don’t let it get to me.”
“Do you have any cousins who are hockey players?”
“Actually, my sister Amy plays hockey. She’s really good. My cousin Brody plays