We can’t get to the bar fast enough once the show ends and we’re all ushered into a ballroom for the after-party. My girl doesn’t usually like me to drink at these things, for fear I’ll make an ass of myself to some reporter. Tonight, she takes the award out of my hand and replaces it with a glass of scotch. Maybe she hopes it’ll distract me. Or dull my instincts. I doubt it, though. I’m always on high alert when my father is around, wholly aware of his proximity. I spotted him the moment we walked in and have tracked him across the room as he works his way through the pop of camera flashes.
“You don’t have to do this,” Hannah says, eyeing me cautiously over the rim of her glass of sparkling water. Guess she figures one of us better be sober if I end up in jail tonight. “We can skip this.”
“Landon would have a fit if I didn’t play ball.”
My sports agent would be here pimping me out to the press and working me around the room if he hadn’t come down with food poisoning last night. Which I guess is what I pay him for, even if this is the part of the business I would rather live without.
“Is that why he didn’t warn you Phil was here?”
I’d wasted no time shooting an angry text to my agent the second the ceremony was over. “He claims he had no idea. Apparently Viktor Ivanov bailed at the last minute, so they swapped in Phil.”
My gaze flicks toward him again. He’s chatting up the team owner from Dallas, dropping that phony laugh of his.
“We won’t stay long,” I tell Hannah, rubbing the small of her back with my thumb.
Touching her keeps the more destructive thoughts out of my head. She looks so hot tonight in that long silver dress that clings to all the right places. If I wasn’t so tense right now and so hypervigilant of my father’s presence, I’d be trying to coax her somewhere private and sliding my hand beneath that slinky fabric. Make her come in a coat closet or go down on her in a supply room somewhere.
“I’ll be right here,” she promises.
I don’t doubt it. Hannah Wells is my rock. I’m not one to brag, but—okay, fine, I’m absolutely one to brag. But I’m pretty sure Wellsy and I have the healthiest relationship of any couple ever. After four years together, it’s undeniable: we’re simply the best. Our communication skills are top-notch. The sex is fucking unreal. When we first hooked up in college, I never in a million years imagined we’d fall in love, or that we’d eventually move in together, build a life together. Yet here we are.
Don’t get me wrong, we’re not perfect. We bicker often, but, I mean, that’s because she’s a stubborn asshole. Though if you ask her, it’s because I—supposedly—always need to have the last word. Which is something a stubborn asshole would say.
I stifle a curse when Phil suddenly looks my way and our eyes meet through the crowd.
My fingers tighten over Hannah’s, squeezing hard.
“You okay?” she asks.
“Nope,” I answer cheerfully.
Getting sucked into Phil’s orbit is like being pulled underwater by the vortex of a sinking ship. Or dragged out to sea by a rip current. Fighting against the inevitable and inescapable force will only lead to exhaustion and kill you faster.
The only way out is through.
“Son,” he booms, yanking me into a handshake with a flock of owners and a couple of reporters in tow. He spares a curt nod of greeting for Hannah before turning back to me. Those shark teeth bare in a fake smile. “You remember Don and the boys.” The boys, he calls them. A hundred billion net worth. Owners of three of the top five most valuable clubs in the league. “Come get a picture.”
“Hell of a season,” one of the owners tells me. He’s posing for the camera while my dad positions me in the middle of the group and from nowhere shoves my award in my hands while I bite the inside of my cheek.
“Team high record for points and assists in the modern era.” The way Phil says it, you’d think he was the one on the ice.
But then, that’s always been his problem. The man simply can’t let the old days go. Wasn’t enough to be beloved in Boston for his time on the ice, he has to live through me too.
Being the son of a legend is a real bitch.
Especially when that legend used to knock you around. When that legend tormented your mother and treated the two of you like trophies he could put on and pull off the shelf whenever he felt like it. If you cracked open the man’s chest, you’d find a lump of coal instead of a heart. His soul is black tar.
“Going after your old man’s record next year?” another owner asks. He chuckles before tossing back a glass of champagne.
“We’ll see,” I say, filling my mouth with scotch while keeping one eye on Hannah to avoid looking at Phil.
It’s torture. This whole stupid dance. Pretending the old man and I don’t despise each other. Letting him play the proud father like I don’t still have the scars from his “coaching.” Bowing to appearances because no one wants to hear the truth: that Phil Graham was an abusive son of a bitch while the entire sport was throwing flowers at his feet.
Thankfully, my best friend and teammate notices our little group from the bar. Reading the urgency on my face, John Logan makes his way toward us.
“Hey, man,” he says with a slightly tipsy grin, swinging a bottle of beer at his side while he inserts himself between us and the camera. “You remember Redhead Fred, right? From the combine. I just ran into him by the crab puffs. Come say hi.”
“Right. Fred.” I bite back a laugh at how bad he is at subtlety. “Man, I haven’t seen him in ages.”
I reach for Hannah’s hand and slip my way out from between Phil and the owners. Much to his dismay.
“If you’ll excuse me,” I say politely, and then we get as far away as possible and practically hide behind the decorative potted plants on the other side of the room.
“I’m proud of you,” Hannah says, taking the award from my hands and replacing it with a fresh glass of scotch. “Part of me expected you to crack your dad over the head with this thing.”
I grin wryly. “Give me a little credit. I’m not a total barbarian.”
“Dude, that was awkward,” Logan says.
“All good. Thanks for the rescue. You did me a solid.”
“Yeah, well, you can make it up to me on the green this weekend. The team doc said I shouldn’t carry anything heavy with my back spasms acting up.”
I snort. Back spasms, my ass. “I’m not carrying your clubs,” I tell him. “That’s what rookies are for.”
“Please tell me someone is taping this.” Hannah laughs, poking me in the ribs. “Last time you tried to golf, we had to pay for that guy’s windshield, remember?”
“Not my fault his damned car was in the way of the hole.”
Her green eyes fill with exasperation. “His car was where it was supposed to be—in the parking lot. The hole was right in front of your face.”
“That’s what she said,” drawls Logan, wiggling his eyebrows.
“Ew.” She smacks his arm.
“Logan hit a tree last time,” I tattle to take the heat off myself. “It had a bird’s nest in it, and the thing toppled to the grass and all the eggs broke.”
He glares at me. “Wow. What part of ‘we take this to the grave’ do you not understand?”
“You killed a bunch of unborn birds?” Hannah looks horrified.
“Not on purpose,” Logan says defensively. To me, he mutters, “Snitches get stitches, G. Don’t you forget that.”
I roll my eyes. “Whatcha gonna do? Beat me up at the tournament? In front of all the Make-A-Wish kids?”
Although I’m not sure we’re playing for Make-A-Wish this time. I think it might be an animal rescue event. Every year, the franchise sets up this charity golf tournament, where big donors pay to play a round of golf with members of the team. Or in the case of some of us, pay to watch us launch balls into trees and parking lots.
“Aw, damn. Who let these dirtbags in here?”
We glance over in time to see Jake Connelly squeeze through the crowd and saunter toward us. He’s wearing a navy-blue suit, dark hair slicked away from his clean-shaven face. Like me, he’d ditched the beard after getting knocked out of the playoffs.
Connelly just finished his rookie year with Edmonton, who were three seconds away from making it to the Stanley Cup finals. Literally three seconds. Their series against Ottawa was tied 3-3 and they were up by a goal in Game 7…when in the last three seconds of the game, a Senator scored a fluke goal that every sports network will be replaying for years to come. Damn puck bounced off a guy’s ass cheek and sailed past Edmonton’s unsuspecting goalie. Ottawa went to win the series in OT, and that’s all she wrote.
“Just in time.” Logan drains his beer and tries handing the empty to Jake. “Run along and get me a refill, will ya, Rook?”
“Yeah, I would.” Connelly holds up his Rookie of the Year award and his own beer bottle. “Hands are kinda full.”
“Look at this kid,” I say, shaking my head. “Already forgetting where he comes from.”
Beside me, Hannah gets those gooey starry eyes she dons every time she’s in Connelly’s vicinity. And I’m sure that when he walks away, she’ll do her usual shtick of poking me in the arm and whispering, “He’s so handsome.”
I personally don’t get it. I mean, he’s a good-looking dude, for sure. But has Wellsy seen who she’s dating?
“Hey, Jake.” Hannah steps forward to give him a hug. “Congratulations. Looks like Edmonton is working out for you.”
“Thanks.” He shrugs modestly. “Yeah, can’t complain.”
“Proud of you,” I say sincerely. I love seeing fellow players have success entering the league.
“I can’t believe you said that to a former Harvard man,” Logan tells me, blue eyes gleaming with accusation. He glances back at Jake and arches an eyebrow. “Where’s Coach’s daughter? She break your heart yet?”
“Oh, shit. That’s right.” This idiot went and hooked up with Coach Jensen’s daughter Brenna like he had a fucking death wish. “You two still together?”
“Yeah, we’re good.”
I look around. “She here?” I’ve only met Brenna a couple of times, but she seems cool.
Connelly shakes his head. “She actually flew in from Vienna early this morning just to come to this shindig. She was doing a whole European tour thing with her friend Summer—oh, you know her. Di Laurentis’s sister.” He shrugs. “Anyway, yeah. She was exhausted, so she went back to the room to get some sleep.”
“Let me give you some advice,” Hannah says, grinning at him. “When your girlfriend flies in from another continent to see you get an award and says she wants to go to bed early, you go with her.”
He looks to me and Logan. We nod solemnly at him. Not going to find me arguing with Wellsy on this one. I’m still hoping for some congratulations sex when we get home.
“All right then,” Jake says, draining his beer and passing it off to Logan. “Guess I’ll catch up with you guys later. And congrats,” he tells me. He points to my award. “Don’t get too comfortable, old man. I’m coming for that thing next year.”
“See you on the ice, kiddo.”
“He’s so handsome,” Hannah breathes as he walks away.
“Keep it in your pants,” I chide.
No sooner does Connelly leave than Logan taps me on the shoulder to point out the team’s GM strutting toward us with Phil. “Got it handled if you want to sneak off,” he offers like the ride-or-die he is.
“Call it a night?” I ask my girlfriend.
She gives a firm nod. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
Before they can corner us, we slip out the side door and make our escape.
