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Mads:
Lucky you.
I slide my phone away, a headache already brewing. I’m staring at the entrance to the closed steakhouse and wondering if I’ll have better luck sourcing a latte at the French restaurant across the way, when a big hand thrusts a white and green cup under my nose.
“Thank you,” I say and lift the cup to my mouth without even asking what’s in it. Chai tea with a splash of vanilla, and I’m pretty sure I taste oat milk.
“It’s on the other side of the convention center.” Robbie gives me a look I’m starting to understand is his version of a smile.
I take another sip, risking the third-degree burns to my tongue. “And you knew my go-to order?”
The bus will be here any minute, and already the lobby is crammed with exhausted-looking hockey players. They’re still dressed to the nines, and clearly they’ve been given travel instructions because, despite the plush seating areas, not a single one of them is even leaning against a wall. I stop myself from looking for tanned skin and hazel eyes.
“No,” Robbie says as I take another sip of what isdefinitelymy preferred drink. “Vic knows yours go-to order, and I just picked it up since he’s running late.” The center’s eyes sparkle down at me and I know why the women online fall all over themselves for him, glower or no glower. “You wouldn’t know anything about that now. Would you?”
Tricky motherfucker.
I glare up at him, but the guy doesn’t seem to care at all.
“How fast did you run out on him this morning?” This time his words are hushed as behind us, coach Noris claps his hands and announces the bus.
“I’m not judging,” Oakes is quick to add, “I just need to know if you and Vic talked before you bolted.”
I glower harder. The only thing stopping me from ripping this man a new asshole is the fact that he handed me liquid caffeine. If he doesn’t shut up—and soon—the entire team will know where I spent the night. And since the players gossip more than a bunch of grannies at a bridge club, management will know before we even board our flight.
“Excuse me?”
“We have about two seconds before we need to get on that bus, and Vic needs you to be cool about something.”
Since when is Robbie Oakes this talkative? Since when am I the one who freaks out about things? I’m the cool-headed voice of reason. I’m the trustworthy one. The one brought in to clean up other people’s messes. I lift my hand, one finger raised to ask Oakes to wait a moment, hold on, let me gather my thoughts, and something catches my eye.
Something gold and polished to a shine.
Something circling the ring finger on my left hand.
Something that looks an awful lot like…
“Holy fuck balls,” Jack Spaeglin’s sounds like he’s both a million miles away, and also bellowing into my ear with a megaphone. “Lucky Charm got fucking married.”
Ever been stuck in a situation so terrible that time seems to stop? Grind down to a halt until seconds stretch like decades? Ever contemplated murder? I might take the rookie out at the knees.
I’m feet from Tristan when Spags’ words break through the crowd and her eyes drop to look at her hand. It reminds me of the cartoons Erik and I used to watch as kids. The way her eyes go wide as she stares down at the gold band wrapped around her ring finger. I promised myself I wouldn’t take it personally when she freaked out—I knew she would—but seeing the panic is still a gut punch.
There was no faking sleep while she shimmied her way out from under my arms and bolted to the door. I wasn’t pretending in order to avoid a conflict. This conversation needs to happen, but I meant to wake up before her. Or maybe not fall asleep at all. I brought her to my room and not her own, because my intention was to have an honest discussion before we got on the bus. When I rolled over and found my room empty, I sent her drink order down and asked Robbie to head her off until I could get my ass downstairs. Someone needed to put the night before in order for her. I can do that.
To be fair, asked is putting it mildly.
I begged my best friend. With less than zero shame.
“I’m not buying you Plan B, asshole. It’s not my fault you thought with your dick instead of making smart choices,” he’d growled into the phone when I dialed him for the third time in as many minutes while I stood in my hotel room with one leg shoved into my dress pants, but that wasn’t what I needed.
I needed someone to slow her down before she jumped on the bus or set the world on fire. Starting with my nuts.
“What the fuck did you do?” Robbie asked, with all the resignation of a sullen teen being given a list of chores for Saturday morning.
The answer is not as much as I wanted to do.
I shove my left hand in my pocket, feeling the cool smooth weight of the ring I’d dropped in there, as Robbie meets my eyes.
