If he ever turns his freaking head and looks in my direction.

Someone else turns, though. It’s that other man—the one with the eyes like the Caribbean Sea. He glances at me and then gives me a quick smile.

And it’s quite a smile. My heart might be broken, but my eyes are not. His eyes linger on me for a long beat, and then he slowly turns his face back toward the coach.

But I still feel his attention directed this way. I don’t know why, but I sense his interest.

The back of his practice jersey says BAYER. I’ve heard that name before. He’s a defenseman, and one of Bryce Campeau’s friends.

No one else glances this way, though, and I’ve been waiting here a long time.

So I turn and leave for the brand-new women’s locker room.

EIGHTEEN

Big No No

ANTON

“Man, I need calories,” I bellow in the locker room after practice. “Pizza at Grimaldi’s? Who’s with me?”

Bryce Campeau raises a hand and gives me a serious nod.

“Excellent. Leave in ten?” I twist my head around, looking for my buddy, Drake. “Anyone seen the Drakerator? Why did he leave the ice early?”

“Blood-sugar crash,” O’Doul mutters.

“Oh, shit,” I say. Drake is a type 1 diabetic. Managing his condition during peak athletic performance is tricky. Sometimes he gets things a little wrong and starts to crash. And it’s often worse at the start of the season, when his metabolism has to readjust to the daily strain of professional sports.

Hoping to check on him, I head for the treatment rooms. But Drake comes skidding into the dressing room, his face red, looking harried.

“You okay, man?”

“No,” he says shortly. “I just fucked up big time.”

“Damn. You want me to find Doc Herberts?”

“Not necessary. And not what I meant. My blood sugar was a little wonky, so I headed off to find the juice and the test kits I keep in Doc’s office, right?”

“Sure.”

“Well, they moved it.”

“The juice?”

“The whole office!” He throws his arms wide. “It’s upstairs now, on the new floor. So I’m, like, dizzy as I climb those new stairs, and I’m in this hallway I’ve never seen before. I don’t know which office is which, so I start poking my head into all of them.”

“Whoa. Did you find it?”

He winces. “Eventually. But first I found this super-pretty girl in a treatment room, grabbing some tape. So I say, ‘Hey doll, could you help me find Herberts’s office?’” He scrubs a hand through his hair.

“Wait, you called a stranger doll?”

“I know, okay? But I was using one-syllable words for a reason. Everything started looking yellow around the edges, and I thought I might pass out.” He heaves a sigh. “I didn’t.”

“Well, that’s good.”

“Sorta. Turns out that girl is a player. I think she said defense. There was yelling. I didn’t get all the details.”

“Question.” Jimbo, our equipment guy, raises his hand, like a boy in school. “Do they still call her a defenseman even if she’s a defensewoman?”