Apollo and Ares are looking at the screen now too, and all three brothers pull their phones out. It’s clear from their flaring nostrils and stiff postures that whatever is going on is bad, really, really bad.
“Shit.” Artemis turns his phone to his sister. “Twenty two missed calls and…” He scrolls the screen. “More text messages than I can count.”
Apollo pats his brother’s shoulder. “We’ll figure it out. There’s nothing he can do about it, right?”
Artemis shrugs. “I’ll need to call the legal team.”
“I’m sorry, Raffi. We really need to leave.” Ares speaks for the group. They give Victoria a quick hug, then me, and try to reassure us they’re okay before hurrying away.
“What the hell was that about?” Tate voices the question on everyone’s mind.
It takes a good thirty minutes and texts from all three brothers to the group chat to insist it’s nothing “that bad,” before any of us relax and open another beer. But soon we’reback for another round of s’mores, and kicking back with some tunes.
I have no idea if I believe in heaven, but if I did, it would look like exactly this. My family, my friends, tasty food, and great music.
Victoria
(SIX MONTHS LATER)
It’s cold as fuck.
I don’t know why my darling boyfriend thought it would be a good idea to launch his foundation and have a fundraiser the week before Christmas, but it’s cold as fuck.
I’ve never seen Raffi so nervous, or so fucking handsome. Not even when he strode across the stage after four years of school to pick up his diploma. This is next level. He’s fighting with a bow-tie in our bedroom mirror.
In the past six months, he’s moved out of the hockey house and in here with Mom, Wyatt, and me, he’s stopped playing hockey, and he’s busted his ass at school.
From a student who was scraping by in his classes while balancing his hockey schedule, he’s now bossing it. He’s in his senior year, and he’s doing himself, and everyone who knows him proud.
“Are you going to stop staring at me and help, Firecracker?” His grumbling frustration makes me swallow down a laugh. I’m not gloating and being smug until he admits he was wrong, and I was right.
“But you insisted on ordering a self-tie bow-tie, Raffi.” I shrug. “You said you had it under control.”
He growls, folding the fabric for the fourth time. “Clearly, I don’t have anything under control right now, Victoria.”
“What’s that? You were wrong?” I cup my hand around my ear and lean into the room from the doorway.
He turns from the mirror, pointing his flaccid tie at me. “You—” He cuts himself off, jaw dropping comically. “Holy fuck. Wh-I—” He scratches the back of his neck before pointing at me again. “You—Fucking hell, Victoria.” He swallows, hard, and takes three strides toward me.
Guess he likes the dress.
Bracing my palm on his forehead, I wag my index finger at him. “Down boy. We don’t have time, and I’m not having you mess up my hair before we even get to the venue.”
He steps back, as always, respecting my “not now,” and beams back at me. “That means I can find a dark corner at the fundraiser and have my way with you.” He directs his attention to his crotch. “We can wait an hour.”
“No. I take it back. After the fundraiser you can ruin me. Not before, or during. After.”
His expression shifts, threatening to fall, but his smile holds. “No take-backsies.” He’s so fucking pleased with himself. It’s something we’ve been teaching Wyatt lately. Once you say something or give something to someone, you can’t take it back.
“When it involves five hundred of the country’s most prominent rich people in the sportsverse, I’m definitely holding this boundary.”
His eyes roam the emerald satin fabric of my dress. “How did you find time to go shopping for this? It’s absolutely fucking stunning.” He trails his hand around the thick straps that cross around my waist and follow them around the back to where they tie. “Oh, my, Jesus Christ. There’s no way.Nope. I’m not agreeing to keep my hands off you when you’re in a backless dress, Victoria.”
Men. I roll my eyes. “It’s not backless, Raffi. It’s got straps, see?” I gesture at the thick satin straps crisscrossing over my back. “It crosses back over at the front and ties in a pretty bow.”
The cogs in his brain turn as he follows the path of the fabric. “So, if I untie this bow, it’ll make your whole dress fall down in front.”
“Raffi Shaw, I will beat you to death with your old hockey stick.”
