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“Wait, have you seen the guest list? Is he on there?”
Ari takes off her red polo, then strips her white camisole over her head and tosses it to me. “Put that on.”
“Just tell me,” I say as I catch the shirt. “Did you see the list?”
My friend meets my gaze, totally comfortable wearing nothing but her pants and a bra. “I glanced at it, yeah.”
“And?” I hold my breath.
She hesitates for a second, and says, “He’s on it.”
I groan loudly and consider faking an illness. Victor Lane has no idea I exist. And while chances are good he still won’t know after tonight, the way today is going, I don’t want to take any chances.
“Ari, will you—”
“I can’t.” She gives me a sympathetic look. “I’d cover your shift if I could, but I have to pick Mateo up from daycare.”
I exhale deeply, looking at my reflection in the mirror as Ari passes me her clean dress shirt. It’s rare I get up-close glances of Victor. I feel a fluttering in my stomach at the thought.
It might turn out okay. Just as long as he doesn’t glance back.Chapter TwoVictorI’m maintaining eye contact with the fat cat telling me about his latest business conquest—smiling and nodding on cue. But truthfully, I’m way more interested in the small plate of spicy meatballs I’m eating as he talks.
“There’s a sucker born every minute, and I’m always ready to swoop in and make money off their stupidity,” Bill Something or Other says, giving me a plastic grin.
I nod and grab the toothpick spear holding another meatball, popping it into my mouth.
“Hey, can I get a selfie?” Bill asks, setting down his drink. “You’ve been playing like total shit lately, which means you’re on the verge of a big comeback. I want the world to know I called the resurgence of Victor Lane.”
I pass my plate to my teammate Easy, who meets my gaze for a split second and conveys everything I’m feeling right now.
Fuck this guy. He’s just a rich asshole with a big mouth and a small dick. Big talker, but he’d shit his pants if an NHL enforcer even looked at him across the ice.
“Absolutely,” I say, returning Bill’s grin.
Playing along, I wait until he’s taken a selfie he’s pleased with. He moves on to mingle with other Blaze players and Blaze Foundation contributors, not even signing off with us.
“Food’s good, at least,” Easy says, clapping me on the shoulder as he returns my plate.
“Yeah, I could eat about a hundred of these meatballs,” I say.
“I’m supposed to make a joke here, right?” My teammate cocks a brow at me in question.
I let out my first genuine laugh of the evening. It’s not so much that what Easy said was funny, it just reminds me I’m not the only one who feels out of place here.
I’m a poor kid from Canada turned NHL player. There’s a lot of money and power at this level of the sport, which I was lucky to reach. It was only because of a scholarship program that I learned how to play hockey as a seven-year-old. That program paid my way until I was a high school player who landed a full college scholarship. Hockey’s in my blood, but wealth still seems foreign.
But Easy? He’s a well-spoken French Canadian black man, born Erik Zimmerman, who had never touched a hockey stick until high school. He gave up a promising career as a model to join the NHL. Easy’s got an innate gift for the game, and though he’s not a natural brawler, he’s coming along. He’s also one of only a few black players in the league.
“Um…” a soft voice says next to us.
My gaze shifts from Easy to a woman holding a tray of drinks beside us. She’s waiting for us to take something, I think.
“Ah, perfect.” I reach over and grab a bottled beer. Easy does the same.
“Thanks,” I say, just as Easy says, “Merci.”
I take a long sip of the beer, savoring the taste of the ice-cold drink. Across the room, my teammate Anton is talking to a well-dressed couple, his girlfriend Mia beside him. Our goalie Jonah and his wife Lily are there, too, smiling at the story Anton’s telling.
Anton’s like a brother to me. He’s one of the few people I always know has my back. And even though he’s been at the top of his game for a while now, he just recently came into his own when he and Mia got together. He’s happier than I’ve ever seen him, and he deserves it.
But me? Bill was right. I have been playing like shit lately. My linesmen, Anton and Luca, have been holding me up. There are a couple smug-as-shit sports writers who enjoy publicly reporting that I haven’t been playing the same since Kristen Moore dumped me.
