I’m not unaware of how unhealthy I can be sometimes, I’m not clueless, but that still won’t stop me from staying awake until this is done. There’s no way my brain could rest if there’s important work to finish.
So I manage to eat the thick creamy celery soup they serve me—still without looking away from my tablet thanks to the long straw they provide instead of a spoon—and I stay hydrated.
Soon enough, I’m shuffled up to my floor of the house, into my office.
I feel two separate kisses to my temple, and then look away from my tablet only to be faced with my six monitors.
I’m meticulous, even if fast, because there’s no room for mistakes in this. And when I finally finish, I collapse onto my bed.
Though it seems a Herculean task, I raise my arm to snag my phone from the wireless charger on my nightstand and see it’s late Sunday night.
More than two days awake and now I get to sleep for at least fifteen hours.
2
Alexei Jankowski — Lex
Monday, November 24th
“Hey, Barbie!”
I resist a groan at that stupid fucking nickname. I never thought having my mother’s face—asupermodel’sface—was something to make fun of until I got drafted.
I recognize that voice, though, and I’m painfully regretting my decision to leave through the front fucking entrance when I spin on my heel in the lobby and come face to face with Bougie, our goalie.
“What’s up, Bougie?” I do my best to smile a little. The last thing I need is to get on his actual bad side.
“Where you off to?” His cheeks aren’t flushed, and his mouth’s not twitching in that weird smirk that always appears when he’s about to say something that makes my soul want to die, so I... answer.
“Gonna go hang out with my mom.”
And there it is, that fucking smirk.
“Man, you gotta invite us. You’ve been hiding her away. Tonight I might finally get my shot.”
“Fuck off,” I mumble, without any heat—I don’t have the energy for that anymore—and just walk away.
As if that fucking neanderthal could ever get a shot with my mom. First of all, she’s married to a very nice man who worships the ground she walks on,andhe’s a billionaire who could buy a small country.
But I’m done wasting my breath on Bougie fucking Bojarski. He never stops running his mouth with me, and I don’t need to give him any more ammunition.
Being the son of one of the most famous supermodels never really was a problem in school or in juniors, when I was surrounded by actual teenagers, but my current teammates—who are supposed to be adults and onmyside—never let me forget how hot they think she is.
Never mind that my father’s in the hockey hall of fame, has more Cups than any of them will ever get, and even two years shy of sixty could still take them in a fight on and off the ice. Or that my brother’s favorite hobby is wiping the floor with them. None of them seem to care aboutthat.
I climb into the SUV and feel that familiar, uncomfortable itch under my skin at sitting in the back by myself. I’ve known Troy for a decade now, so I push through and smile at Michael’s head of security.
“How’s it going?”
“Can’t complain, kid. You?” He’s already driving away from the Certon’s drop-off area, and though all I can see is the back of his graying hair, I can picture his blank face perfectly.
“Yeah, same. Can’t complain.”
Which is a good reminder.
Ireallycan’t complain.
I’m the star player of an NHL team, a legendary team. I get to play agamefor a living, get paid very well, and I have an amazing family.
