Date night
I WAKE UP THE NEXT MORNING TO A STRONGLY WORDED EMAIL from the head of the athletics department.
In two terse lines, it states that my presence, along with every single member of the hockey program, is required at the Graham Center at 1:00 p.m. sharp. Any player who doesn’t show up better have a doctor’s note or be dead. I assume Chad Jensen added that last part himself because it’s very Jensen-esque.
Thanks to donations from former students like my father, the Briar Hockey complex is basically its own little kingdom on campus. We have our own gym and training center full of PT and weight rooms, saunas, hot and cold tubs. Two huge media rooms, two rinks, enormous locker rooms.
And a large auditorium where today’s emergency meeting is being held to discuss the events of last night.
The entire coaching staff of both the men’s and women’s programs stand on the stage, while their respective players fill the first three rows of cushy seats. Near the podium is a tall willowy woman in a white pantsuit. Her entire vibe screams public relations.
Coach Jensen looks like he wants to murder everyone in the room, including his own colleagues. He approaches the microphone at the podium and gets things going in a brisk, irritated voice.
“I would like to congratulate each and every one of you for ruining my Saturday plans with my granddaughter. She’s ten years old and recently developed an affinity for tiger sharks, and she cried when I told her I couldn’t take her to the aquarium today. Everyone, give yourselves a round of applause for making a ten-year-old girl cry.”
Beside me, Cami smothers her laughter with the sleeve of her hoodie.
“In other news,” he announces. “Tim Coffey’s out for at least four weeks with a sprained wrist. He’ll miss the entire preseason and likely several games.”
Jensen punctuates this with a glare at our team doctor, as if he’s the one who sprained Coffey’s wrist. To his credit, Dr. Parminder doesn’t even flinch. Tim Coffey does, however. In the front row, the freckle-faced senior hangs his head in shame. I heard he spent half the night in the emergency room getting X-rays.
“I won’t bother telling you how stupid and irresponsible you all were last night. I get it, I was young once. I enjoyed a good party in my days. I won’t lecture you about the drinking—underage drinking for many of you.” He shoots a pointed look at the lowerclassmen. “I won’t even go too hard on the fighting. But to the bonehead who decided to film the fight and post it online?”
He does a slow clap, which triggers another wave of silent giggles from Camila.
“Congratulations, bonehead—you’ve scared the boosters.” Shaking his head in disgust, Jensen stalks away from the podium.
My own coach takes his place. Adley clears his throat and addresses the auditorium.
“What Chad is trying to say is, we’re dealing with some very concerned boosters and alumni at the moment. Donors,” he says meaningfully. “In case you need reminding, donations are what pay for this state-of-the-art facility. They’re what keep your locker rooms stocked with top-of-the-line equipment. They’re what gets you several televised games a year—you see any other D1 programs receiving that perk? This school offers the most elite program on the East Coast, but that doesn’t just happen by chance. We might attract the talent, but we need the money to develop it. And now, thanks to last night’s events, we’ve got boosters calling and emailing to ask why our program is in shambles. Why our own players are breaking each other’s wrists and how will that help us make it to the playoffs, let alone win any championships.”
My fearless, smart-ass captain thrusts her hand in the air.
Coach Adley notices and nods in her direction. “Yes, Whitney?”
“I want it on the record that the women’s team had nothing to do with yesterday’s fight, and we did not bring shame upon this house.”
A few titters echo in the cavernous room.
“Noted,” Adley says. “However, that doesn’t change the fact that we’re in damage control mode. And this requires a concentrated effort on the part of both our programs.”
Adley nods toward the white-pantsuit lady, who takes over.
“Good afternoon. My name is Christie Delmont, and I’m the executive vice president of marketing and public relations for Briar University.”
Why do job titles sound so made up these days?
For the next ten minutes, Delmont lays down the law and lists all the sins we’re no longer allowed to commit. No fighting or visible hostility in public. No filming anything if hostility does arise. We’re not to conduct any interviews or release any statements without prior approval from her or the athletic department, but she has arranged for a glowing profile of the new Briar/Eastwood team that will run in all the Boston newspapers.
“You will shower praise on your teammates,” she tells the men, her tone brooking no argument. “I expect to see the most flattering, effusive ass-kissing in your individual interviews. Not even a whiff of animosity. From this point forward, you all love and adore each other.”
She flips to the next page of the small stack she’s set on the dais. “Pacifying the boosters is our main objective right now. They’ve sent me a list of upcoming fundraising and publicity events. I’ll be enlisting many of you to participate, and in the case of the Briar alumni benefit in December, you’ll be responsible for organizing several elements, including the silent auction.”
She glances at her papers again, then lifts her head and searches the crowd.
“Gigi Graham and Luke Ryder?” she calls in question. “Can you raise your hands so I can see you?”
Uneasiness washes over me. At first I consider slouching in my seat and hiding, but Cami pokes me in the side, forcing me to raise my hand. In the row ahead of us, Ryder does the same. His reluctant body language reflects mine.
“If either of you have plans tonight, cancel them,” Christie Delmont says sternly. “There’s a charity gala in Boston organized by Leesa Wickler, whose family is one of our largest donors. You two will attend as representatives of Briar University and your respective hockey programs.”
“Date night,” I hear one of the dudes chortle.
I’m sorry, what? They can’t just force me to start attending galas against my will, can they?
And why are they sending Ryder, of all people? I can easily guess why they want me. As Ryder enjoys pointing out, my last name is Graham. That carries a lot of weight.
But why the hell are they recruiting the most antisocial asshole I know to represent Briar at an event that requires smiling and shaking hands?
I wait until we’re dismissed before pulling Coach Adley aside to get some answers. I observe Ryder doing the same with Jensen. From his unhappy expression, it looks like Jensen isn’t giving him any.
Adley admits he doesn’t know why Ryder was picked but confirms the reason for my selection.
“I know you hate this kind of stuff, but the boosters love your dad,” he says, sounding apologetic. “I’m sorry. I know you would’ve preferred to be left out of this.”
“All good,” I lie. “Happy to do my part.”
But I’m battling a mix of resentment and irritation as I leave the auditorium.
“G, you okay?”
I find Case in the hall, concern etched into his handsome face. He’s in sweatpants and a Briar hoodie, his blond hair rumpled as if he was running his hand through it while waiting for me.
“Yeah, I’m good.”
“This Ryder thing is BS. Want me to talk to Jensen and see if he’ll send me instead?”
“No. It’s fine. Really,” I add when I note his skepticism. “I don’t want to make any waves.”
We fall into step together, heading down the hall toward the lobby.
“I don’t want you hanging around that guy,” Case grumbles.
Then I probably shouldn’t mention I was planning on seeing Ryder tonight regardless. We had plans to practice, before Jordan Trager decided it was more important to break poor Tim’s wrist. Now we’ll have to reschedule, thanks to stupid Trager.
“I’ll be fine,” I assure him.
And you’re not my boyfriend anymore, I want to add. He doesn’t get a say any longer about who I spend time with.
We reach the lobby, where I bid him goodbye because my teammates are waiting for me by the doors.
“Gigi,” Case says before I can walk away. “Put me out of misery. Please.”
Unhappiness lodges in my throat. “I…can’t. We’re not together anymore, Case. I don’t want to be.”
He looks so frustrated and upset that it triggers a rush of guilt, but I force myself to ignore it and keep walking.
Later that night, I drive to Hastings to pick up Ryder for the booster gala. The email from the Briar PR lady stated the dress code as semiformal to black tie.
A.k.a. the kind of fashion extremes that give me anxiety.
Does that mean some women will be wearing dress pants and a nice blouse while others are in sequined cocktail gowns?
What kind of gala is this?
I split the difference when dressing and picked a little black dress to wear tonight. Hair down, minimal makeup save for a bold pop of red lipstick. I even made an effort to get a French tip manicure after the meeting today, which is essentially flushing money down the toilet because my fingers will only be banged up again when practice officially starts next week.
I climb the porch steps on my high heels and ring the doorbell, wondering what a one-hour drive to Boston with Ryder in my passenger seat will be like. The man barely speaks. And while I’m usually okay with comfortable silences among friends and family, I get antsy with awkward ones. I might have to throw on one of my meditation playlists. Try to zone him out.
The door swings open and a familiar face greets me, a pair of playful eyes. Shane smiles at the sight of me, then groans when he notices what I’m wearing.
“Oh, that’s nice. Can I be your date tonight instead?”
“Call it a date again and I’ll punch you in the nuts,” I say sweetly.
“Don’t threaten me with a good time.” He flashes a cheeky grin and I’m momentarily distracted. Those dimples are dangerous.
He opens the door wider for me. “Come in. I need you to settle something for us.”
“Settle what? And for whom?” I gaze past his broad shoulders, but he seems to be alone.
He takes my hand and tugs me inside. Amused, I follow him into the living room, which, of course, looks like a typical man cave. Huge sectional, two leather armchairs, a massive TV, and a lot of beer bottles on the coffee table. Despite the cluttered table, the room is neat and tidy, so they’re not complete heathens, I guess.
Beckett Dunne, sprawled on the chaise part of the couch, greets me with his own set of killer dimples. “Graham,” he says as if we’re old friends.
“Where’s Ryder?” I ask.
“He’ll be down in a minute,” answers Shane. “You gotta settle this first.”
“Fine. I’ll play along. What am I settling?”
Shane slides his hands in the rear pockets of his jeans and rocks back on his heels. “Which pickup line you would respond better to.”
“You’re practicing pickup lines? Classy.”
“We’re not practicing. We’re trying to determine which one of us is right. Spoiler alert: it’s me.”
“I kind of have a feeling you’re both wrong,” I say helpfully.
“Nah,” Beckett drawls.
Those dimples again. God help the women on the receiving end of these pickup lines. I have to admit, even I’m not immune. I find them both attractive. If I was in the market for another hockey player boyfriend, either of them would do. Lookswise, anyway. Personalities are yet to be determined.
“I’m saying you go charming,” Shane explains. “Be a little witty.”
“You think your line is witty?” Beckett hoots.
Shane ignores him. “It’s fucking witty,” he assures me.
I turn to Beckett. “And you?”
“I think you take the direct approach. We—the chick and I—we both know what the other one wants. Your line needs to reflect that.”
I can’t deny I am intrigued. “All right, let’s hear them.”
Shane grabs a full bottle of beer from the table and holds it out to me.
“Oh, I’m not drinking. I’m driving.”
“You don’t have to drink it. Just hold it. Get in character.”
I laugh as he shoves the bottle in my hand and ushers me to the center of the room, where he proceeds to set the scene like the director of a community theater production.
“Okay, you’re at the club, right? There’s, like, a sick R&B song playing or whatever. You’re vibing.”
I start bopping my head to nonexistent music.
He stares at me in dismay. “Oh no. I’m not approaching you if that’s how you’re dancing.”
I stare back. “Do you want me to play your game, or can I go find Ryder and be on my way—”
“Fine, let’s continue. You ready?”
“I guess so?”
I don’t know what it is about hockey players, but I find that all of them are insane. Sexy but insane.
Shane moves to the doorway, cracks his knuckles, and then fully commits to his character by striding toward me exuding sheer confidence. He casts that smile again. Tucks one hand in his pocket, all cool-like.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey,” I play along.
“I’m Shane.”
“Gigi.”
“Tell me something, Gigi.” He slants his head. “Are you an organ harvester? Because you’ve stolen my heart.”
Dead silence crashes over the room.
Then I keel over with laughter.
Due to my hysterics, I nearly drop the beer bottle on the carpet. Beckett plucks it from my hand before it tips over.
Chuckling, he glances at his friend. “See?”
“Yes, see? She’s laughing. I’m in.” Shane narrows his eyes at me. “Right?”
“Well…”
“Come on, Gisele. You know that got you.”
“I mean. I don’t know what it did to me, but…” I take a breath, tamping down another wave of giggles. “What’s yours?” I ask Beckett.
He hands me the bottle back. “Do the weird head-bopping thing again.”
I oblige.
Beckett comes at me with an equally confident gait. Fuck, these guys are sure of themselves.
“Hi,” he says.
“Hi.”
He bites the corner of his lip. “I kind of want to fuck you. Do you want to fuck me?”
My jaw hits the floor.
I close it, then open it.
Finally, I find my voice. “I…think I might be impressed.”
He smiles seductively. “Do you want to get out of here?”
“Yes,” I answer, a bit winded. “I think I do.”
“Oh, fuck this,” Shane complains. “No way in a million years would you react that way.”
I mull it over. “I might if I wanted to sleep with him.”
“Mine made you laugh.”
“It did,” I relent, “but if we’re both there for sex”—I nod toward Beckett—“I think he’s my man.”
He beams at me. “I knew I liked you, Graham.”
“Am I interrupting?”
I suddenly notice Ryder in the doorway.
My breath hitches, because…wow. He cleans up nice. He’s wearing black trousers and a gray suit jacket over a black dress shirt. No tie, top button undone. His face is clean shaven, but his dark hair still has that tousled bad-boy look to it.
I try to ignore how good he looks. “Your friends are trying to get me into bed,” I explain.
He shrugs. “Pick Shane. He just got dumped and needs the pity fuck.”
Shane flips up his middle finger. To me, he says, “I didn’t get dumped. Like I keep telling these assholes, it was a mutual breakup.”
“Oh, sweetie. There’s no such thing as a mutual breakup,” I say frankly. “Ever.”
Beckett snorts out a laugh. “See, mate? She gets it.”
“You ready to go?” Ryder asks me.
“Yeah, let’s do it.”
As I walk toward him, I don’t miss the way his sapphire-blue eyes drag slowly along the length of my body.
“What?” I say, self-conscious.
He shifts his gaze away. “Nothing. C’mon. Let’s go.”
