The bus rumbles to a stop outside our Fort Lauderdale hotel, and the collective groan tells me everything I need to know about the team’s energy level. We’re deep in the playoffs, and nobody has slept a full night in weeks.
“My legs are trashed,” DeLuca announces from the seat behind me. “I might need to be carried off this bus.”
“I’ll grab your head, the rookie can take your feet,” Patterson offers, already standing and stretching dramatically.
“I’m not touching anyone’s feet,” Weber grouses. “That’s not in the handbook.”
I clap my hands together. “Less whining, more walking. I’m hungry.”
“They’re feeding us again, right?” DeLuca asks.
“I’m sure. Get your asses off the bus, and then I’ll check.” Captain’s duty.
I watch as they file toward the front, a procession of exhausted millionaires griping like toddlers before nap time. Petrov has his sleep mask still pushed up on his forehead, Weber is limping slightly from a blocked shot that found the one unpadded spot on his ankle, and Larkin is already on his phone, probably checking in with his pregnant wife.
I’m always the last one off the bus. Captain goes down with the ship, or in this case, makes sure nobody leaves their phone chargers or lucky socks behind. I do a quick scan of the seats, picking up a water bottle Emerson left behind and a granola bar wrapper that somehow missed the trash.
That’s when I notice a flash of ginger up front. As I get closer, I realize that Darcy—the GM’s assistant—is still in the first seat, her head resting against the window, completely dead to the world.
For a second, I just stare. I’ve never seen Darcy Kendrick anything less than alert and efficient. She’s always three steps ahead of everyone else, anticipating problems before they happen, notebook in hand and a sharp comeback ready. But here she is, mouth slightly open, completely oblivious to the fact that we’ve arrived.
I reach for her shoulder but then hesitate. I don’t want to startle her. “Darcy. Hey there, Darcy?” I say softly instead. “We’re back at the hotel.”
But she doesn’t move. Her pretty face is slack.
“Darcy?”
Once again, nothing.
I’m going to have to be more assertive, but I’m not looking forward to it. Darcy is a fantastic asset to the team, but she’s always been a little prickly to me. And only to me. When everyone else is around, she smiles more. I irritate her, though, and I’ve never been able to figure out why.
Honestly, it bugs me.
None of that matters right now, though. We need to get off this damn bus, so I reach down and give her shoulder a gentle nudge. “Buddy, we’re back at the hotel. I don’t think you want to stay on this bus.”
Her eyes snap open with the suddenness of someone who’s been yanked out of a dream. When she looks up, her gaze meets mine, and for a brief second, there’s a flash of something almost dreamy in her expression before it’s quickly replaced by irritation.
“Damn it.” She leaps to her feet, her face flushing nearly as red as her hair. “I never fall asleep. Did anyone draw on my face?” Her hands fly to her cheeks.
“Nope. You’re clear,” I say quickly. Although it’s a legitimate fear. Last month, on a flight to Dallas, Johnson fell asleep with his mouth hanging open and DeLuca drew a handlebar mustache on him with a Sharpie, which didn’t fully wash off until three games later. The TV commentary was rough.
She scrubs at her face with her hands anyway, then gives me a furious look. “Don’t stare. It’s impolite.”
“I’m not. I’m waiting for you. Like a gentleman,” I insist. Then I change the subject. “Dinner is probably soon, right? That’ll perk us up.”
She hoists her bag onto her shoulder and gives me another frown. “I’m on it, okay? I’ll check with the kitchen before I go up to my room.” Then she marches off the bus as if I’ve offended her.
Which is fine, right? I don’t need everyone to like me.
They usually do, but whatever.
I thank the driver for his service and drag my tired ass into the hotel.
The Florida humidity sticks to me even after I’ve staggered into the air-conditioned hotel lobby. But the heat makes sense, because I’m suddenly in hell. I can’t believe that Eric Tremaine just found me drooling on myself. So mortifying.
I’d been floating along in a dream state when I’d heard a low, sexy voice. “Darcy. Hey there, Darcy?”
My first reaction had been: Oh yes, baby. Say more. But when I’d eventually opened my eyes, I’d been filled with horror. Out of two dozen players, it had to be Eric Tremaine who found me? I let out a groan, and a bellhop gives me a quizzical look.
You’d groan, too, buddy. My working relationship with Eric Tremaine is already complicated. He’s at the tippy top of the Legends food chain, and I’m on the bottom. Since he’s the captain of the team, I interact with him more than with other players.
Unfortunately, he’s also the only one who makes my stomach flip every time I look at him. It’s not just his Hollywood face, either. Or those long eyelashes. And don’t even get me started on that jaw.
I’ve met pretty men before. But Tremaine just has that X factor. It’s like someone took Michelangelo’s David, put him in a suit that costs more than my monthly rent, giving him the ability to make my knees weak just by saying good morning. I’ve seen him break up locker room arguments with nothing but a raised eyebrow—an eyebrow that probably has more authority than my entire résumé.
The worst part? He’s genuinely nice. Like, rescues-kittens nice. I’ve seen him slam guys into the boards during games and then politely apologize afterward. Who does that?
Honestly, before I met Eric, I would’ve told you that I’m not even into nice guys. But he’s changed me. I’d die of embarrassment if he knew how often I think about him. Or, fine, dream about him.
And now he knows that I sleep with my mouth open like a pit bull in a sun patch, tongue lolling.
Still bleary, I practically lurch through the hotel lobby, past the bank of windows with their expansive view of the marshes at twilight. The light is soft and blurry. Or maybe that’s just my exhaustion talking.
In many ways, my job resembles the night sky—it’s so glamorous from afar. But if you peer through a telescope and look closer, you realize even the brightest stars are burning themselves out. And the playoffs aren’t over yet. We’ve made it to round three, and game seven is tomorrow night. If my boys win, then we’re on to the finals.
Giving my head a shake, I trudge toward the Palmetto Room to check on the team meal. The travel department made all the arrangements remotely, but my boss is a control freak who insists that I verify everything personally. And when anything goes wrong, he yells.
Inside the banquet room, I see a dozen tables already set for the dinner service. That’s a good sign. But I’ve learned to take nothing for granted. So I push open the kitchen door, finding a beehive of activity.
I inhale the scent of grilled chicken and garlic. Another good sign. “Hello, Chef González? Are we on track for six thirty?”
She strides into view, a cleaver in her hand, her face in a bitchy frown. “Of course we are.” She grabs a clipboard off a nail on the wall and thrusts it at me. “It’s everything you asked for. Twice as much protein as forty people really need, and my special empanadas.”
“They’re professional athletes, they eat a lot,” I remind her, scanning the menu.
“Don’t remind me. If they win tomorrow night, that makes me a traitor.” She turns toward the busy soldiers in chefs’ whites. “GO FLORIDA!”
“Go Florida, Chef!” the kitchen staff shouts back in unison.
I’d almost be impressed except I realize something is missing from the menu. “I asked for a single bottle of a 2015 Bordeaux for the head table.” It’s my boss’s standard request everywhere we go.
The chef shrugs. “Y’all didn’t arrange for bar service. That’s a separate bill. I got nothing to offer unless you want cooking sherry. That’s the policy.”
“A single bottle,” I press. “For the boss who green-lit this expensive meal in your hotel.”
Another shrug. “I just don’t have it to give. And—hands to Jesus—I’d be happier if y’all ate elsewhere. GO FLORIDA!”
“Go Florida, Chef!”
Sigh. I know a lost cause when I see it. Chef González is part of the same pecking order that I am. She’s expected to keep her head down, follow the rules, and make her own boss happy. “Fine. I’ll handle it. See you in a half hour for the meal.”
“Yes, Miss Kendrick. All will be ready.”
I leave the kitchen and head out to the lobby bar, where a couple of younger players are sipping iced tea and playing cards. Damn it, Eric Tremaine is there, too, shoving a straw into a smoothie.
“Hey, Darcy,” he says. “Want a soda? Or a smoothie?”
“No, thank you,” I say, avoiding his pretty gray eyes. “I’m on the clock.”
I waltz right past him and approach the bar. “Excuse me,” I say to the two young bartenders, who are standing together, whispering. They’re almost certainly gossiping about the professional athletes in their midst.
One of them finally bothers to approach. “What can I get you?”
“What do you have in a 2015 Bordeaux?”
He reaches for the wine list. “Prolly something in here…”
I grab it out of his hands and flip to the back. “Here we go. Chateau d’Issan. I’ll take the bottle, uncorked.”
He frowns. “They do bottles upstairs in the restaurant. Down here at the bar, we only sell it by the glass. That’s our policy.”
I’m trapped in a doom loop of stupidity. “Okay. Fine. I’d like five glasses, please.” I push my boss’s credit card across the bar.
“’Kay,” he says. “Gimme a minute to get the bottle from the cellar.”
He hustles off, and I prop my face in my hands and close my eyes. I’m still so sleepy. The Legends played deep into overtime last night to tie up the series. Then we woke up early in the morning and flew here, heading straight to the arena for a practice after the flight.
I indulge in a fantasy of sleeping in late tomorrow. Even though it will never happen.
“Problem?” asks a low, sexy voice.
I yank my head up and find Eric Tremaine standing in front of me. “All good,” I say quickly. “Just buying some wine for the boss. You know how he is.”
“Yeah, I do.” Tremaine smiles, and my stomach does a little flip.
Gah.
The bartender reappears and makes a show of opening the bottle. It would cost ninety dollars at a store. God only knows what the hotel is going to charge us.
Not my problem, though. The bartender pours out the bottle into five goblets and lines them up on the bar. “You got four friends?”
“They’ll be along later,” I say. “Can I see the bottle? That’s a nice label.”
“Sure.” He hands it over.
Eric frowns at me as I set the bottle on the bar and grab a laminated appetizer menu off the bar. “What are you doing?”
“This will make a good funnel. Hold the bottle steady, would you?” I curl the menu into a cone shape and poke the end into the bottle.
He grabs the bottle and secures it, no questions asked. That’s just how he rolls—one minute he’s wiping up the rink with his opponent. The next minute, he’ll turn around and help the cleaning staff collect empty cups after a meeting because “everyone’s job matters to the team.”
Like, sir? That’s not allowed. You can’t be both the most intimidating person on the ice AND the kind of guy who remembers the security guard’s grandson just started kindergarten. Pick a lane.
He leans in, steadying the bottle, and I can smell his shower soap as I pick up one of the goblets and decant it carefully through my makeshift funnel back into the bottle.
“Interesting way to enjoy a glass of wine,” he says with a chuckle.
“Hush. Mr. Sharp wants what he wants, and sometimes I have to get creative. Just hold still for another minute, would you?”
“Hey, miss?” the bartender says, suddenly paying attention to me. “You can’t take that to go!”
“Sure I can,” I insist, grabbing the second goblet. “You sold it to me in glasses, like a good employee. What I do with it is my business. Now, where’s my check?”
He blinks at me a second before walking away to charge my boss’s card.
I make quick work of the other wineglasses while Eric snickers to himself. “You deked him.”
“He had it coming. Thanks for the assist.”
“My pleasure.” He gives me another dangerous smile.
Five minutes later, I’ve delivered the bottle to the Palmetto Room—along with one of the goblets, which I’ve washed and dried carefully in Chef González’s kitchen. I text the boss that his wine is waiting at his table.
Then? I head into the lobby, where there aren’t any bosses or hockey players. And I flop down for a moment’s rest. Honestly, it’s tempting to go upstairs to the comfortable room I share with Zoe, the Legends’ skating coach, and also my best friend.
But I can’t do it. The allure of my bed would be too great. So I check my email instead.
The first message I find makes me feel even more exhausted. It’s from my half sister, Tessa, and the subject line is T-MINUS TEN DAYS UNTIL THE JACK-AND-JILL WEDDING SHOWER! PUT ON YOUR DANCING SHOES!
At the sight of it, a little wave of despair rolls over me. The playoffs are exhausting, but once they’re over, I’ll be steeling myself for a family wedding. My half brother is getting married, and I have to show up and smile for the photos.
I dread it.
My brother and I aren’t close, and I’d hoped I wouldn’t be invited. Unfortunately, my invitation had arrived on thick, expensive paper—the kind with rose petals embedded into it. It was the most pretentious document I’d ever seen in my life. And the worst part was a brief personal note from my father, telling me that he expected to see me there.
But before we even get to the wedding, there’s this shower that I’ve also been ignoring. I’m pretty sure I deleted the first email about it, assuming that I’d be in the middle of the playoffs and unable to attend. And that might still be true.
It had better be, because I dread this party, too. My half sister is a predictable creature. She loves shouty caps, designer cocktails, and backhanded compliments, not necessarily in that order. So it’s not really a surprise that she’s been tasked with planning my half brother’s wedding.
I click the email.
Dear Family & Friends,
We are SO EXCITED to invite you to kick off the wedding activities for Theo & Maribel! The theme of the wedding is JUST FOR THE FUN OF IT, and we’re going to do everything we can to put on a fantastic Wedding Experience!
In the meantime, please join us for this pregame party:
Get ready to sing your heart out, sip on handcrafted signature cocktails, and bask in the glow of two people totally in love.
RSVP to
[email protected]. Can’t wait to see you there!
XOXO,
Tessa
It’s almost impossible to express how much I’m dreading the whole thing. So it gives me no end of joy to respond in the following way:
Hey Tessa!
I’m writing from Fort Lauderdale, where we’re trying to sew up round three of the playoffs. When we advance to the finals, the game schedule will almost certainly knock me out for the shower.
See you at the wedding, though!
—Darcy
That managed, I reply to a handful of queries from the travel department and the box office. Then I open Instagram for a little harmless scrolling. My feed is full of the usual—cats behaving badly, hockey memes, and designer handbags that I can’t really afford.
A moment later, though, the universe decides to plop Eric Tremaine’s maddeningly attractive face in front of me again. His photo rolls into my feed, and before I can help it, I let out a little sigh. The new pic is so dreamy. He’s leaning against a leather chair in a softly lit room, wearing a tuxedo. He’s giving the camera a secretive smile.
The caption: I’ve got a new tuxedo, and I’m ready to party.
For a long moment, I just gaze at the photo, because I feel less guilty ogling him on my phone than in person. That’s what Instagram is for, right? His publicist wouldn’t post pics of him making smoothies in his penthouse kitchen or squatting six hundred pounds in the gym if they didn’t want people to look.
But I hate myself a little anyway, because this photo fills me with an uncomfortable yearning. I’m tired, and I’m only human. So I tap the screen to share it with Zoe.
Doesn’t my future ex-husband look yummy in his tux? New fantasy: Our captain also has to attend the Randolph-Fletcher wedding, so naturally, we’ll go together. Which means I’d have a date for this horror show. And as a token of my gratitude, I’ll peel the tux off E-Train afterward and lick him everywhere. Then he can tie my hands to the bedpost with his new bow tie.
You’re around for dinner, right? In the Palmetto Room?
Send.
I collapse against the expensive hotel sofa and close my eyes. But I’m in danger of falling asleep again, so I sit up straighter and finish my tea. It’s already quarter past six. I must remain conscious at least through dinner, after which I can fall into my hotel bed.
The playoffs are the hardest part of my year. My schedule doesn’t ease up until July, when I’ll work only part time and take two college courses. I’m twenty-six years old and only halfway to my business degree. My goal is to get it by thirty. Then I can get a better-paying job with a boss who isn’t so grumpy.
“Hey! Is dinner ready yet?” I look up to see Zoe hurrying toward me. “I’m starved.”
I give her a once-over. She has flushed cheeks, and her makeup was recently reapplied. “How come you look so cheerful?”
Zoe plops down on the sofa beside me. “I’m at a luxury hotel in Florida. What’s not to like?”
My eyes narrow further. “Chase was on the early bus back, wasn’t he?”
“So?” Zoe averts her gaze. “What’s on the menu tonight?”
“You two had a quickie,” I hiss. “That’s why you’re so smiley.”
“Shh!” Zoe looks over her shoulder. “Keep your voice down. Is it that obvious?”
I growl a little. “Only because I know you. The two of you are like caffeinated rabbits.”
She shrugs. “When the season is over, we’re finding you a boyfriend. A decent one. Not another one of those losers.”
“If you say so.” It’s true that I had a lot of terrible first dates this season. But finding a boyfriend isn’t even in my top five life goals.
“Darcy, you can’t just spend the rest of your life fantasizing about…” She’s too good a friend to risk saying it aloud in the team hotel lobby. So she just clears her throat instead.
“Yeah, yeah. But wasn’t that a great photo I sent you?”
She looks blank. “Photo?”
“Check your phone. I just texted it a minute ago.”
Zoe pulls out her phone and frowns. “No, you didn’t. The last message I have is you asking me if eye-rolling counts as cardio.”
“Well, it should. And here—I sent you…” I pull out my phone and open our text thread. But there’s no picture of Tremaine. “Oh, wait. I messaged you on Instagram. See?” I open that app next and tap on my messages.
But the message on top of the inbox is not with Zoe. It’s with Eric Tremaine’s profile.
I sent the message directly to Tremaine, not to Zoe.
“Oh my God,” I breathe. Because this is truly a disaster. So much worse than drooling on the bus. “Oh my God.”
“What’s wrong?” she asks.
“Just everything.”
Bathing suits on! DeLuca says in our friend chat. We can swim after dinner.
From the hotel bed, I glance toward my suitcase. Changing my clothes sounds like too much effort.
That means you too E-Train.
Hell. Not one to disappoint my boys, I finish my smoothie. Then I heave myself off the bed and look for my bathing suit.
Nice pic on social, captain, Chase Merritt chimes in. Sexy.
Honestly I thought he looked constipated, Weber chirps back.
I throw the phone down on the bed, not about to dignify those comments with a response. But after I change into my trunks, I open Instagram and check my profile.
Technically, I never have to open social media. “You have people for that,” my publicity assistant always says. “Leave it to me.”
But when the guys are making noise about a photo, I always pay attention. After all, it was Chase who spotted my hookup’s panties in the background of one shot last year. I deleted that one in a hurry.
Today’s photo is fine, though. It’s me in my new tux. I squint at it, trying to see what Weber was talking about. But the publicity people insist that a serious expression is part of my “brand.”
Gross, right? I refuse to become someone who says “my brand” with a straight face.
Since we’re deep in the playoffs, my account is particularly active this month, with thousands of comments. And somehow I’ve got over a hundred unread messages. I tap on the inbox. People send the weirdest shit to a stranger:
I’ve analyzed your game stats and concluded that your slap shot improves by 7% when you wear blue laces.
Do you think hockey players would survive a zombie apocalypse? Asking for science.
I crocheted a life-sized pillow of you. My cat is sitting on your face right now. Marry me?
I just know your favorite cereal is Cinnamon Toast Crunch. Am I right? Blink twice for yes.
These people are probably drunk. Or maybe they know I only read 1 percent of the mail, and they’re just amusing themselves.
I’m about to close the app when my eye snags on one particular message… the Randolph-Fletcher wedding…
Okay, weird? I open the message and read it twice. But I’m still confused. Who the hell is @D10011?
There’s a sharp knock on my hotel room door. “ET? You ready for dinner?” The voice belongs to DeLuca, one of our goalies.
Still staring at my phone, I cross the room and open the door. “What’s going on here, you think?” I thrust the phone at my buddy. “Does this person know me or not?”
He reads the message, frowning. “Hmm. So there’s some babe who wants to take you to a wedding and then let you tie her up. That’s just Tuesday on the internet. I don’t see the problem here?”
I point at the last line. “The Palmetto Room is where we’re eating in five minutes.”
“Ohhhhh shiiit!” He squints at the screen. “Who is this woman. Or, if we’re being objective, it could also be a man.” He taps on the sender’s handle.
The profile pic doesn’t show a face, though. It shows the Flatiron Building instead. “That’s six blocks from the rink.”
We both lean in for a better look. But there are very few photos in the feed. No selfies, either. These pics are artsy. There’s a photo of a mosaic I recognize from the Twenty-Third Street subway station—a portrait of a dog by William Wegman. And another of Eighth Avenue on a rainy night, the neon lights reflecting on the wet pavement.
“Clues!” DeLuca says, sounding delighted. “He or she lives in our neighborhood.”
“Right?”
“Oh, look—those shoes!” DeLuca jabs a thick finger at the photo of some sidewalk chalk, which also captures the photographer’s feet. “So this is a woman’s profile. And… don’t those look familiar?”
I squint at the photographer’s shoes. They’re cute—a pair of leopard print heels. And when something clicks, I inhale.
“Bro?” DeLuca says. “You’ve seen ’em, too, right? They’re hot.”
“Those are… Darcy has those shoes.” I can picture her in one of her pencil skirts striding into work, a leather bag over her shoulder, hips swinging. Long, smooth legs.
And those heels.
DeLuca lets out a gleeful hoot. “Holy shit! Darcy’s sliding into your DMs? Who knew she had it in her?”
I straighten up, stunned. Somehow, it’s hard to align the Darcy I saw fifteen minutes ago with this message. She wants to peel me out of my tux? What?
Unbidden, my body flares with heat.
“Except…” DeLuca takes the phone and reads it again. “Here’s the thing—. . .
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