Ty could see that now. It was the end of October, a month into the official season, and ever since he’d made the kid’s day by giving him a few minutes of ice time, along with signing an autograph and posing for a picture or two, Janna the Human Terrier had been on him, relentlessly cajoling and wheedling and pleading and begging and bargaining, trying to get him to show his face at an event, any event. Which, of course, he wouldn’t. Much as her constant nagging made him want to snatch a roll of athletic tape from one of the trainers and plaster some over her mouth, deep down he realized she was just doing her job—a job which seemed largely to center around bugging the living hell out of him. It had become something of joke: all she had to do was come within three feet of him and the first words out of his mouth were a swift, emphatic, “No.” It was his own fault, he supposed. If he’d ignored the kid, just headed on into the locker room that day the way he usually did, then she’d still think he was a hard-ass.
