“True.” She reached for a red T-shirt and pulled it over her head before stepping into a pair of jeans. “But by then you’ll have a black eye.”

He grinned. “True.” He grabbed his suit jacket and slid his arms inside. Last season, he’d hooked up with her in Pittsburgh. That night against the Penguins, he’d scored a goal, spent four minutes in the sin bin for a double minor, and got his first major shiner of the season. Maybe she’d bring him the same sort of luck this year. He reached for his wallet and shoved it into the back pocket of his khaki trousers.

“Last season your beautiful face was a mess,” Veronica said as she slid her feet into a pair of pumps.

It hadn’t been that bad. Just a few stitches and minor bruises. He’d certainly suffered worse during his sixteen years in the NHL.

“You should model.”

“No. Thanks.” A few years ago, he’d done an underwear ad for Diesel, and he’d found the whole process a colossal bore. He’d spent most of an entire day sitting around in white briefs while the crew set up for different shots. The end result had been huge billboards and magazine ads of him with his junk practically hanging out and looking particularly enormous. The guys on the team had razzed him endlessly, and his mother had been afraid to show her face in church for a month. After that experience, he decided to leave modeling to the guys who liked that sort of attention. Guys like Beckham.

Together, he and Veronica walked from the bedroom of Sam’s downtown loft. Within the open interior, gray shadow hugged the leather furnishings as fading sunlight cast dull patterns across the wood floor.

Sam held the front door open for Veronica, then locked it behind him. He moved down the hall, and his thoughts turned to the game in less than a week against San Jose. The Sharks had been knocked out of the first round of playoffs last season, but that didn’t guarantee a win for the Chinooks in this season’s opener. Not by a long shot.