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“Ms. Grant.” Spaeglin is red faced and sweating, and I know it’s not just from practice. “We were just running some drills.”
“And now we’re done. Out,” Robbie calls out to the guys who wrestled the nets away. They grab sticks and water bottles and pile over the boards to leave the rink. My teammates all dip their heads as they pass Tristan, and it’s not sexist—I don’t think—to say that I’m impressed by how she’s earned the respect of a gaggle of oversized men. Robbie claps me on the shoulder as he leaves us alone. I think there’s a squeeze there too, but it’s hard to tell through my pads. I appreciate him clearing the ice for me, except there’s a slight chance this woman is going to eviscerate me and leave my body bleeding out on the ice.
“Hey kitty cat,” I grin at her because I like the way it makes her bristle. I can almost imagine fur standing up along her spine as she narrows her eyes at me.
“Victor.” She’s on the bench now, arms crossed over her chest and foot tapping. I’m not even looking at the way her breasts are pressed up and out, just showing that I think my earlier teacher fantasy was an aberration. “I’m already a full day behind on this new campaign and I need an answer before I fall behind.”
I know what she’s asking for, and I was going to seek her out once the guys were done, but I can’t help but shake the hair out of my eyes and let my lips split into an even bigger grin, “An answer to what?”
I swear I see her eye twitch, but she’s back to frosty before I can be sure. I shouldn’t enjoy riling her up like this, but I do. She’s wound so tight, clutching a million different threads in a white-knuckled fist, controlling every action like a puppeteer wielding an army of marionettes. I want to knock her off-kilter. I want to see her take a deep breath and smile and I don’t even know what else, but something. I want to see her genuine reactions. Not the ones she’s trained herself to have.
“You know what.” She says the words like she thinks I’m an idiot and there’s an airy pocket of something filling my stomach.
Tristan is small on the best days, only a few inches over five feet. Usually, she comes up to my shoulder. Today I still have on my skates and full gear and she barely reaches my armpit. I take my helmet off to see her better and drop it on the bench behind me. I have the urge to sit her up on the top of the boards, just so we can be closer in height. Except I don’t think it would help.
“Can you sit down or something?” For one moment, her straight white teeth bite down into her red-painted mouth. “I don’t enjoy talking to Howl.”
I look down at the wolf logo on my light blue practice jersey. With my black hockey pants, I wonder if she’s noticed that we match. I drop onto the bench, and she glances away from me as the wood shakes under my weight. I should mention it to maintenance so they can get it replaced or tightened before one of the team ends up ass over elbow on the dirty floor.
“Thank you,” she spits the words out between clenched teeth. “I need to know if you’re in or out, Varg. I need to make contingency plans and prepare a pitch for Chris if you don’t want to do this. He’s set on you, so it’ll take some work to convince him of a new idea, and I don’t have a lot of time to waste.”
If I wasn’t already sure that something was going on with the team, I am now. It’s something to do with Haine, but I know better than to press her for details she can’t or won’t share.
“I’m sorry I left you hanging,” I say because I’m not one of those guys who refuses to own up to the problems they cause and I am sorry that not having an answer from me added to her stress. But I also know that I’m aggravating her by drawing this conversation out longer, and I like the electric tingle I feel when she closes her eyes and sucks a deep breath in through her nose.
“I’m in,” I say as her lips form an O and she exhales. “I was going to come find you after practice.”
Narrowed eyes.
“Practice ended over an hour ago.”
“Some of us run additional drills after. I swear I was on my way to you once we finished.” I hold back the “kitty cat” that’s on the tip of my tongue because I’m trying for serious here. I didn’t mean to leave her hanging. It took time to track down Erik last night and talk to him about what this could mean for him, for us. And when we were scheduled to get to the rink and suit up by eight, I assumed she wouldn’t want to meet beforehand. Now I think maybe she would have met me at four in the morning if it was to give her an answer.
“I couldn’t say yes without doubling checking one thing, not after you said that you couldn’t guarantee what would stay private.” I must be imagining the way her shoulders drop just a fraction of an inch. “My family and my brother have always been a subject that is off the table with the media. That was his choice and his request. I understand things are a little different after last season and the team’s role in his relationship and his engagement, but he still had a right to know what this could mean for him. He had a right to decide if he was comfortable with what might be shared.”
Normally, siblings aren’t a big draw for stories about athletes. Not unless they’re doing something borderline illegal or making their own headlines. But Erik is different. We’re twins. Twins who played together. Twins drafted to the juniors together. Twins who expected to go to the NHL together. And then we didn’t because Erik got sick. He got sick and lost his left leg below his knee and our dream crashed and burned.
I know the guilt I feel about making it on my own is survivor’s guilt. It took a long time and a very expensive therapist for me to understand that. My brother is alive. I didn’t survive over him. But my dream did. So yes, we keep the media out of his private life. He only recently started coming to games again. Only recently stepped back out on the ice. I don’t want to mess any of that up for him. No matter how much I want to help the woman in front of me and the team I adore.
“Erik,” Tristan says his name, and I know I see her soften this time. “Of course.” Another bite to her plush lips. “I can understand that. Is he okay with the proposal?”
I nod. It was a long, long talk last night, and the plan is to avoid his diagnosis and past as much as possible, but he’s okay with me taking part. Hopefully, he won’t come up at all. Tristan’s glare falls and I wonder if it’s because she respects my reasons, or if it’s because I told her yes. I think I can even see a hint of a smile at the corner of her lips. I want to breathe life into it like a nascent flame.
“I have the team schedule but send me your availability for the next two weeks, and I’ll set up a meeting for us to get started. Send me any ideas you want to focus on and we’ll start filming shorts as soon as possible. Thank you for agreeing.” Tristan turns away from me, and all the bubbles in my center start to fizzle and pop.
“Come on, kitty cat.” I get to my feet as she turns away. “You knew I’d say yes. I always do.”
Tristan turns to look at me over her shoulder and just like that, her face shutters again. I don’t know where I went wrong. I once had to hide from her because I didn’t know how to say “no” when she asks me for anything. I don’t like saying no to anybody, but especially not to Tristan Grant.
“Not always,” she says and then she’s swallowed up in the dark of the tunnel and I’m left alone wondering when she decided she couldn’t trust me.
Of course he suggested the rink for the first video.I huff out a breath and tug down the hem of my dress. I’m no stranger to the temperature here. I handle the cold just fine—Palmer says that the natural chill I radiate leaves me unsusceptible to the cold—but I know the layers to wear when I’ll be near the ice. I’m not cold today, but I had a meeting with Chris and Bob added to my schedule at the last minute and had to race from the conference room downtown to The Stand. It doesn’t matter if my schedule is filming or editing.I’m expected to dress like a paragon of professionalism when meeting with the wealthiest man in the city and my boss. And of course, I didn’t have a single pair of clean dress pants to wear today.
So here I am, forcing my hands down by my side and walking through the tunnel towards the gleaming ice, wearing a cream-colored shift dress that falls way too high above the knee and a pair of thin pantyhose. Not cold, just praying to a higher power that Victor Varg will not attempt to put me on the ice. Knowing my luck, that’s exactly what he has planned.
“Nice boots, kitty cat,” Varg says, a smile crinkling the corners of his hazel eyes.
I look down at my feet, and despite the teasing lilt to his voice, I don’t regret changing into the fuzzy shoes I always keep in my car. Better than trying to chase this man down on the rubber mats in my normal heels. Varg’s wearing the heather gray sweatpants issued to every Arctic player, his number in white on his left thigh. His hands are in his pockets and I wish he was wearing the team sweatshirt too, so I wouldn’t be staring at the bulge of his biceps under a thin warm-up t-shirt. A shirt that’s molded to the dips and curves of his broad chest.
