But I'm not good. I'm pissed off and restless. Seeing Avery yesterday fucked with my head. I hate that now she’s looking at me like I’m a problem to be solved instead of the man who made her scream my name three months ago.
She thinks she can control me? She's about to learn exactly how wrong she is.
The skills competition goes well enough. I place second in the fastest skater event, which normally would annoy me, but tonight I'm distracted by the blonde in the stands who keeps taking photos of me with her phone.
She's exactly the type the tabloids love. Leggy and obviously a groupie.
Perfect.
After the event, instead of heading to the team dinner like I'm supposed to, I make my way over to where she's waiting by the player exit.
“Enjoyed the show?” I ask, flashing her a smile.
Her eyes light up. “You were incredible out there. I'm Sasha.”
“Nova.” I let my gaze drift over her appreciatively, knowing there are probably cameras somewhere catching this. “You here alone?”
“Not anymore, I hope.”
I'm about to suggest we grab a drink when Jake appears at my elbow. “Nova, you coming for the team dinner?”
“I'm good,” I tell him, not taking my eyes off Sasha. “Tell them I had other plans.” I turn back to Sasha. “What do you say we get out of here?”
An hour later, we're at an upscale rooftop bar in Midtown, and I'm buying drinks for Sasha and her three friends who mysteriously appeared. The photographers lurking outside caught us arriving together, which was exactly what I wanted—to send a message.
No one controls me.
My phone buzzes with texts. Jake asking where I am, Cole wondering if I'm coming to the official after-party, and even a message from Jennifer asking if everything is okay.
I ignore them all.
“So what's it like being a professional hockey player?” one of Sasha's friends asks, leaning close enough that her perfume overwhelms the air between us.
“It has its perks,” I say, signaling for another round. “Like meeting beautiful women who appreciate the finer things.”
They giggle like I've said something incredibly witty instead of a line I've used a hundred times. But that's the point. These women don't want depth or real conversation. They want the fantasy, the Instagram photos, the story they can tell their friends.
They want Nova, the character. Not Liam, the guy who's spiraling because his publicist makes him feel things he doesn't want to feel.
By midnight, Sasha is practically on my lap, her hands roaming over my chest while her friends document everything on their phones.
“You're so much fun,” she purrs in my ear.
“What were you expecting?”
“I don't know.” She trails a finger along my jaw. “But you're wild. I like that.”
Wild. Uncontrolled. Everything Avery said I needed to stop being.
“You have no idea,” I tell her, and lean in for a kiss that I know will be splashed across every gossip blog by morning.
But even as our lips meet, exhaustion hits me like a wall. The adrenaline from the game is catching up.
I pull back, suddenly drained. “Let's get out of here.”
The photographers are waiting outside as expected, cameras flashing as I emerge with Sasha clinging to one arm and her friends flanking my other side. I flash a grin, play the part one more time as we make our way to the Range Rover.
“Evening, Mr. Novak,” Hudson says as he opens the door.
