Lucas leans forward, fascinated. “Wait, so are we pretending this isn’t happening?”
“Yes,” Trey says immediately.
“No,” Fuze says at the exact same time.
Anthony grins. “The room has voted. It’s happening.”
I stand and grab my stick. “All of you need hobbies.”
“We had hobbies,” Knox says. “Then you and the compliance trainer started eye-fucking each other through practice drills.”
The room detonates.
Even Trey cracks for half a second before catching himself. “Language.”
“That’s fair,” Anthony says solemnly. “Respectful eye contact, then.”
“Deeply respectful,” Fuze agrees.
I point at all of them. “One bad line change tomorrow and I’m fighting every single person in here.”
“See?” Fuze says, sitting back triumphantly. “He’s already talking about fighting. Toni’s influence is incredible.”
My phone buzzes against the bench.
I already sense it’s the group chat before I look.
Fuze: MAX STEVENS FOUND THERAPY TITS
“I’m going to kill him,” I say.
Across the room, Fuze points at me immediately.
“See?” he says. “Growth. Last month he would’ve started with punching.”
This is the team dynamic that turns Trey into the exhausted dad of twenty-five idiots. Trey has been reading me the entire time. Of course he has. Now, they all know.
Chapter Eight
Toni Amato
I change outfits three times before I hate myself enough to stop. This is ridiculous. I could have gone in my work clothes after the game ended. It’s a casual drink with some ladies I’ve never met, not a red carpet, job interview, or arranged marriage. Yet, I face my mirror, dressed in black jeans, boots with heels, and a rich emerald top that accentuates my eyes and softens my mouth. My hair falls loose for once instead of pulled back tight. I clip one side loosely. I barely recognize myself. My phone buzzes as I grab my clutch.
Piper: You coming or are we sending a search party?
I smile despite myself.
On my way.
Piper: Text when you get here. Use the players’ entrance on the side alley.
Players’ entrance. Of course.Because normal people apparently use doors while hockey people use secret tunnels.
The bar glows orange and blue against the Chicago night, tucked between brick buildings on Madison with music thumping faintly through the walls. Three rows of laughing people and a velvet rope crowd the front entrance. I move past it toward the alley, where a discreet black door sits beneath a brass light.
No sign or line. Just privacy. I text Piper.
At the side door. Feeling mildly illegal.
