by Kendall Ryan
Absently, I flip through a coffee-table book sitting on the edge of the desk. This one is filled with images of dramatic landscapes from around the world, photographed in black and white. I have no idea who bought it or why it’s here. It’s just a generic part of a generic office that I haven’t made mine yet.
A photo near the middle of the book makes me pause—it’s of a volcanic eruption. The sky looks normal, but everything around it has been blown to smithereens, the trees toppled over and bare of any branches or leaves.
I feel at home as I run my fingertip over the glossy image. Everything in my life looks normal. But inside, I feel confused and conflicted and distraught much of the time. Maybe everyone is right, and I need to sell the team and walk away with my dignity before it’s too late. But some stubborn, selfish part of me won’t let me do that.
Some days can only be conquered through pump-up playlists and double shots of espresso. The kind of days that begin with extra concealer under my eyes, and end with me falling into bed exhausted, with some whirlwind of chaos for the twelve to fourteen hours in between.
Lately, I call these days normal, and they’re a gentle summer breeze compared to the tornado I’ve been living through the last week. Which is why, somewhere between observing the team’s morning skate and my fifth brand-sponsorship meeting of the week, I sent an SOS text to Gretchen, insisting we pencil in some much-needed girl time.
Two hours later, she’s booked us mani-pedi appointments at my favorite nail salon, and now, after making liberal use of the massage functions of this pedicure chair, I’m beginning to feel like a new woman.
As the cloudy water spirals down the drain of my foot bath, David, my favorite nail guy, slips a flimsy pink pair of foam flip-flops onto my freshly exfoliated feet, then motions me toward the manicure station. Gretchen has already settled in at her station for the fancy hot-towel treatment she booked, and I pad over to join her, tossing my long-empty coffee cup into the trash can on the way.
“You’ve got to stop drinking coffee this late in the day, girl,” she says as I sink into the seat next to hers. She’d probably wag a finger at me too if her hands weren’t wrapped in hot eucalyptus-scented towels. While I didn’t spring for the deluxe treatment, just catching a whiff soothes my nerves.
“I will, I promise. Just as soon as the season ends, and I’m not losing half my sleep to stress dreams involving my late grandfather shooting hockey pucks at my head.”
Before she can take a crack at psychoanalyzing that nightmare, David interrupts her, shaking a bottle of bold emerald polish in my direction. It’s the perfect shade of Boston Titans green.
“This is your color, right?”
I nod, resting my wrists on the terrycloth towel. Normally I stick to pale pinks and nude tones, but if ever there was an occasion to paint my nails Titans colors, it’s the first game of the season, which is in less than twenty-four hours. For my toes, however, I stuck to my favorite shade of ballet-slipper pink. Old habits die hard.
While David gets to work filing my nails into the perfect almond shape, Gretchen scoots her chair an inch or two closer to mine, turning her shoulders to lean into whatever gossip she’s about to launch into.
“So, is it true that they’re adding extra security detail for the team this year? I read this whole article about it, but some fans say it’s just talk.”
For David’s sake, I try not to flinch. “Since when do you read the hockey blogs?”
“Since my best friend became the owner of a professional hockey team,” she says, the duh implied. “And especially since said friend became the subject of some crazy protests.”
My stomach clenches at the reminder. Things have quieted down a bit since the initial announcement, but I’m not optimistic enough to believe the fans are on board with me quite yet. “There’s speculation of another march outside the arena before tomorrow’s game too.”
Gretchen frowns, worry brewing in her deep brown eyes. “Jesus, I’m so sorry. Who knew hockey fans could be such dicks?”
“And sexist,” I say with a huff. “Sometimes I think this city would be happier with a golden retriever for an owner, so long as it’s male.”
“I, for one, think you’re doing a way better job than a golden retriever,” she says.
It’s not much of a compliment, but it makes me laugh, which is something I haven’t done a whole lot of lately.
“Well, I’m glad my fan club has at least one member. Maybe if we win tomorrow, I’ll get a second and a third.”
Gretchen’s smile fades, her voice dipping to a strained whisper. “And what if you lose?”
I heave out a shaky exhale, focusing on the tiny nail brush David is wielding like a Michelangelo of manicures. Admittedly, I’ve been ignoring the very real possibility of a loss.
“Then maybe I’ll be glad management hired the extra security. Personally, I think the protesters are all bark and no bite, but—”
“But you can never be too careful these days.” Gretchen finishes my thought, then steers the conversation in a more positive direction. “I’ll bet the extra security has you feeling better about things, though. Right?”
My heart kicks in my chest. I’ve been having plenty of feelings about our security detail lately, very few of them having to do with my safety. In fact, a hundred percent of those feelings revolve around a certain tall, smoky-eyed man who seems to be occupying the corners of my mind in the least professional of ways.
“Well, I’m feeling all kinds of ways. Actually, I’ve been meaning to ask you about one of our security guards. Any chance you remember Holt Rossi?”
She’s silent, and my gaze wanders back to hers just in time to watch her nose crinkle in thought. “That name sounds familiar, but I’m drawing a blank.”
“He graduated from Sutton the same year we did. Really big guy, kind of a loner type?” There’s a whole arsenal of other more flattering adjectives I could use to describe him. Tall. Broad. Mysterious. A better kisser than any man has the right to be. Need I say more?
After another quick pause, Gretchen’s eyes brighten with a flicker of recognition. “Oh yeah. Rossi. Wasn’t he involved in breaking up that fight at the frat house the night you were trying to hook up with . . . he-who-must-not-be-named?”
“You can say Alex’s name, Gretch,” I say gently. “He’s an ex, not a hex.”
She shrugs. “I know. I just think he doesn’t deserve to take up any more time in our conversations than he already has for the last six years.” She gives me a sly smile.
I’ll give her that. But I don’t think Gretchen understands that working in close proximity to Alex is its own special kind of torture.
If only I didn’t know how tense he got after a game, maybe my hands wouldn’t itch to rub his shoulders. If I were able to forget how hard he was on himself following a loss, I wouldn’t care about how hurt he probably was.
But caring for Alex is no longer my role. He made his decision. He was the one who broke things off, the one who wanted to be single, and he got his wish.
So, why doesn’t he seem any more at peace? I’m not sure. But it’s no longer my job to comfort him. Now he has puck bunnies for that. And according to some of the locker-room chatter I’ve overheard, he’s making good use of their skills.
“Anyway, back to Holt,” Gretchen says with a wiggle of her eyebrows. “Did he remember you from Sutton or something?”
I nod, my teeth habitually finding my lower lip. I never told Gretchen about my one-night history with Holt. It didn’t seem important enough to share at the time. It was just a one-time thing, after all. A fling. A fluke. So, when I slipped out of his bed and scrawled my good-byes on a scrap of paper, that was that. He was in my past, where I thought he’d stay.
And he did, up until now.
“Yeah, he, uh . . . he remembered me. And I remembered him too, of course.” I can’t disguise the nervous hesitation in my voice, and Gretchen catches it right away, her gaze narrowing with a devilish
gleam.
“What’s going on?” Her voice is a low, suspicious whisper. “Did something happen between you two?”
Something? Damn near everything happened between us, all in one whirlwind of a night.
I used to think Holt was a one-time thing. An error in judgment on my part. It used to bring me shame, thinking about my night with him. I went to that party determined to get the fun-loving hockey player to notice me, and instead hooked up with the rugged loner. Afterward, I felt ashamed, and Holt was the antihero in my story.
An adult now, I know better than to be ashamed of my actions that night. A hefty dose of hormones and misplaced lust sent me into Holt’s bed. I couldn’t blame myself. The man is very attractive, in a brooding, outcast kind of way.
“We actually, um . . . we hooked up once,” I murmur, trying to keep this public conversation as private as possible.
Unfortunately, Gretchen doesn’t take the hint on my preferred volume for this topic. Her jaw falls slack, releasing a sound somewhere between a gasp and a squeal. “Holy shit, no way. In the arena?”
“Oh my God, no,” I whisper-shout. “This was back in college.”
“Oh.” She’s quiet for a long moment, then her lips purse, suppressing a smile. “I kind of wish it was in the arena instead. At least I’d know you were getting some action since you-know-who.”
“Sorry to disappoint,” I say with a laugh.
“But wait, when in college was this? I can’t believe I didn’t know. Was this before we met?”
I shake my head. “It was actually the same night you remember. The one of the fight at the frat house. I went off looking for Alex, and Holt found me along the way. And then . . .” A flush creeps across my cheeks. “And then we hid out in his room, drinking and talking, and . . .”
I don’t finish the rest of that statement. David keeps his eyes down, focusing on my manicure. I’m sure he’s heard much worse before, but still.
While David is gone to get the hot towels for my manicure, I dish to Gretchen on the details of that night, everything from the swigs of whiskey from his flask, to the hastily written note in the morning.
When I’m finished, I draw in a deep breath, the smell of acetone and apricot scrub serving as some small comfort as I wait for her reaction. But instead of one of the responses I’m expecting, like a Wow or I can’t believe I never knew that, her brows shoot up to her hairline, urging me to go on.
“And then . . .” She presses for more, her eyes as wide as her smile.
“And then I started dating Alex a few months later,” I say with a sigh. “And you know exactly how that story ended.”
Disappointment flashes over Gretchen’s face, then quickly fades to a small smile. “And then six years later, your hockey team just so happens to hire his private security firm.”
“Yep. Crazy coincidence, right?”
“I don’t think so.” Her tone is matter-of-fact. “I think it’s a sign.”
A laugh bubbles out of me, but before I can tell her how ridiculous she’s being, Gretchen’s focus shifts to her manicurist, who keeps her gaze lowered and doubles down on buffing out the ridges of Gretchen’s nails. By the time they’re done discussing her desired nail shape, my best friend has other topics on her mind.
“So, what about you-know-who?”
My brows push together in genuine confusion. “Do I know who?”
Her eyes roll so far back, I’m momentarily concerned they’ll be permanently stuck that way. “You know. Alex. Do you think you’re over him?”
“Alex and I are done,” I say firmly. “Plain and simple. If anything, he’s helped me realize exactly what I don’t want. No more hockey players, and no more cocky assholes.”
“Huh.” Her lips lift in a smirk. “So, someone like, I don’t know . . . Holt Rossi?”
“Have you been huffing nail polish?” I tease. “What happened between Holt and me is so far in the past.”
“College wasn’t that long ago, Eden.” She clucks her tongue, a self-satisfied smile spreading across her lips. “And do you really think it’s just a happy accident that six months after your breakup, an old hookup from undergrad shows up in your life?”
“Yes, I do.”
I’m being short with her now, but I can’t let this turn into a legitimate topic of discussion. Especially not when Holt and I have already wandered into dangerous territory, discussing the fact that we’re both very single at the moment.
Naturally, my brain ran rampant with that information. Hell, I even told him about my clunker of a date Grandpa Pete set me up on. Why did I do that? So Holt would know I’m open to dating? Jesus. Thank God Les didn’t leave the two of us alone for too long. I could have let our chemistry carry us away.
“You’re all set.”
David caps the bottle of gold nail polish I didn’t see him grab and dips his chin toward my nails, each one painted kelly green with a touch of sparkle added to the tips. It’s the kind of perfect touch only someone who has been doing your nails every week for six months would know to do. The fluorescent lights bounce off the tiny gold flecks in a way that’s almost hypnotic.
Maybe I can hypnotize myself. You will not think about Holt Rossi that way. You will not think about Holt Rossi that way . . .
Jesus, I really need to change the subject.
“So, you’re coming with me to the game tomorrow, right?”
Gretchen’s face sours, all her mischievous matchmaker energy disappearing in the blink of an eye. Note to self—bring up sports anytime you need Gretchen to drop a topic.
“Do I actually have to watch the game?” she asks with a whine.
“Come on, you’re telling me you still don’t care about hockey? Not even now that you’re keeping up with the blogs?”
“I care about you,” she says to clarify. “But I don’t care about a bunch of sweaty guys fighting over a puck that, half the time, I can’t even see.”
“It’s not their fault you need an updated contacts prescription,” I remind her. “Maybe then you wouldn’t have such a hard time keeping up.”
“I told you, I’m nearsighted,” she says stubbornly. “So as long as you keep the catering options near me, we won’t have any problems.”
A laugh spills out of me as I pull my credit card from my wallet. “Just don’t get too close to Holt, okay? I don’t need you talking to him about the fact that he’s apparently a sign.”
Gretchen holds up a freshly painted pinkie. “Promise to try my best.”
I give her a pointed look. “That’s not the same as promising not to talk to him.”
She shrugs, then shoots me a wink. “I said what I said.”
• • •
“Ladies and gentlemen, let’s give it up for this year’s Boston Titans!”
Looking over the stadium from the executive suite, I feel like a queen surveying her kingdom. The seats are packed to the rafters with fans, their raucous applause sending a jolt of adrenaline coursing through my veins.
It’s been a stressful week, but tonight I feel nothing but pride. Every headache-inducing day and late night at the office has been leading up to this moment—the first game of the season. And I’m ready for my team to prove what they’ve got.
As the team shuffles down the chute and out onto the ice, the sea of jersey-clad spectators leap to their feet, fists pumping and cheers echoing through the stadium. Moments later, our competitors take the ice.
Let the games begin.
Beside me, Gretchen rests her elbows on the glass half wall, watching the teams warm up with a look of determination in her eyes. “Which ones are our guys again?”
“The green jerseys.”
She frowns and squints. “But they’re both green.”
Stifling a laugh, I give her a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “The Denver Avalanche are teal, Gretch. Don’t hurt yourself. You can go get food, if you want.”
She brightens at the mention of hors d’oeuvres, almost enough to make her ent
husiasm about the puck drop seem genuine. As soon as the forward for the Avalanche takes control of the puck, though, she scuttles off to the buffet, returning a few minutes later with a plate piled high with spring rolls and chicken wings.
“Want some?”
I shake my head. “No, thanks. I’m not very hungry.”
The truth is, my stomach is probably about ready to eat itself, but my nerves have kept a vise grip on me all day, and I haven’t been able to stomach a thing. Not unless you count the two oat-milk lattes I’ve sucked down to keep myself alert.
Maybe Gretchen has a point about my caffeine habits, but that’s a conversation for another time. For now, my eyes are locked on the ice, my attention wandering only momentarily when I spot a certain broad-shouldered head of security standing one section beneath my box.
A fluttery feeling stirs in my belly.
Holt looks handsome as hell in that Boston Titans polo, even if the jewel tone does seem a little contrary to his personality. His usual black shirt and slacks complement his broody gray eyes and the dark stubble peppering his angular jaw, but I like him in green equally as much. Or maybe I just like the idea of him matching my nails.
That’s a worrying thought.
I look away from him just in time to watch the Avalanche score the first goal of the game, and a few minutes later, the second. Shit.
All the things I used to know about Alex seem to be thrown out the window. He used to love the thrill of speeding down the ice, the rush of adrenaline with each hit, but right now he looks tired. Worn out. Completely over it.
It’s strange because he should be at the top of his game. He’s single, just like he wanted, and he recently signed a lucrative deal with Rush Sports, one of Canada’s biggest sporting goods brands. And not that I went looking, but I see photos of him on the hockey blogs from time to time with different women on his arm. A blonde in a silver dress he took to the ESPN awards last month, and a buxom redhead he was photographed with leaving a nightclub the week after.
I’m proud to report that these sightings have no bearing on my emotional state. After our breakup, I cried all the ugly tears, ate all the ice cream, binged on so many vodka sodas, I didn’t think I could ever enjoy one again. And now, it’s as though Alex Braun has been purged from my system. I grieved the loss of our relationship, and my heart is in a good place—which is to say it’s closed for business. The only thing I want to focus on at the moment is my career.
