Logan
I hate suits.
The collar sits wrong against my neck, the jacket pulls across my shoulders no matter how many times the tailor adjusts it, and the shoes are too smooth on the bottom. Dress shoes feel like I'm skating on glass.
Blake is next to me in the elevator, tugging at his own collar. “You look like you're heading to a funeral.”
“I'd rather be at a funeral. At least at a funeral, nobody expects you to make conversation.”
Blake lets out a shocked laugh. “That’s dark, even for you.”
The elevator doors open on the executive level at MSG. The hallway is wide, carpeted, and lined with framed photos of championship teams. We turn the corner, and the sound of the event hits us. Music, laughter, and glasses clinking.
The sponsor appreciation event is in a private lounge overlooking the arena. One wall is floor-to-ceiling windows with a view of the empty ice below, and the bar runs the length of the opposite side.
High tables are scattered throughout the space, draped in white cloth, and navy blue and silver banners with theRenegades crest hanging from the ceiling. Waiters in black move through the crowd carrying trays of champagne and appetizers.
Cole is already here. He's in a charcoal suit, standing near the entrance, shaking hands with a man who is laughing at whatever Cole just said. Cole is good at things like this. When the team named him captain, nobody was surprised. He was born for the C.
The man leads without raising his voice. On the ice, he's the steadiest player I've ever shared a blue line with. Off the ice, he's the same. Nothing rattles Cole Maddox.
I respect him more than almost anyone I know.
Liam arrives thirty seconds after us and immediately takes over the room. That's what Liam does. He walks in, and the energy shifts. He's in a navy suit with no tie, his shirt unbuttoned one button too many, and his hair styled like he just stepped off a magazine cover.
“Gentlemen,” he says, clapping Blake on the shoulder. “Who's ready to schmooze?”
“Nobody uses that word,” Blake says.
Liam laughs. “Duty calls.”
Blake shakes his head. “He's going to end up on a billboard for that sportswear brand.”
“Probably.”
“You want a drink?”
“Yeah.”
We head to the bar. Blake orders a beer, and I order a whiskey, neat. The bartender pours it, and I hold the glass without drinking. The ice in my chest hasn't thawed since the text from Jasmine.
I haven't responded to her. I've typed four different replies and deleted each one. What do you say to the woman you walked away from ten years ago?Thanks for the heads up? Good to hear from you?Nothing I came up with seemed good enough.
The event fills up around us. Wilder Ross, the Renegades' Director of Corporate Partnerships, is working the room with Richard Carter, the team president. Carter is old money and old hockey. Wilder is younger and built for this stuff.
He catches my eye from across the room and gives me a nod. I nod back. That's about as social as I get with the front office.
Thomas Moore, one of the Tier 1 sponsors, is holding court near the window with a group of executives. He's got a whiskey in his hand and a voice that carries across the room. I met him at the last event, and he talked to me for twenty minutes about his lake house in Connecticut. I nodded through the whole thing.
Coach Mercer is here, too, which surprises me. He doesn't usually do these events. He's in the corner with Assistant Coach Davidson, both of them looking exactly as comfortable as I feel.
Mercer played defense for fifteen seasons. He gets it. There's a reason he doesn't make us do media training.
When the season started, Cole pulled me aside after our first practice and told me that the organization wanted to name me alternate captain.
I didn't know what to say. The A isn't something you campaign for. It's not something you ask for. It's given to the guys the team trusts, the ones who show up every day and do the work without being told. I've been doing that for six years with the Renegades. I didn't think anyone noticed.
“You earned it,” Cole had said. “Don't overthink it.”
