Chapter 41

"…and that play you made to get that puck between Sanderson's leg pads just at the buzzer"—the man in front of me is practically vibrating with excitement as he discusses our last game against the Grizzlies—"I was in the arena, man, and it was absolutely electric."

"Right," I say, scanning the crowd—and it's a crowd because the gala is sold out, and has been for weeks.

I can't see Rory in all the chaos.

Which isn't all that much of a surprise.

I haven't seen much of her since we arrived—what with her having to be everywhere at once and schmoozing all of the rich donors.

But I've caught glimpses of her in the room as she works her magic, as I've done my best to pull my weight and get people drinking and eating and spending money.

And drive up competition for the silent auction.

"…and Rome"—the man whistles—"he's smooth as hell on the ice. I can really see how much he's grown since he left the Gold…"

"Yeah," I agree, frowning now as I've reached one end of the space and still haven't come across a glimpse of my gorgeous blond in her pale blue dress, her sparkling shoes not as bright as the light she has inside her. "Rome is great." I start to scan back the other way, searching more carefully this time.

And…not finding.

Dammit.

"And Cam Jackson," the man says. "Hell, I never thought I'd say this, but that kid has more talent in his pinky than the Great One?—"

He's not wrong.

But I've now made a complete circuit of the room with my stare.

And Rory isn't here.

"His mind alone?—"

"I think you were outbid on the signed jersey," I interrupt, nodding to the table full of clipboards and handwritten bids for all manner of prizes that is currently being supervised by one of Rory's volunteers.

"What?" the man asks, spinning away from me. "I need that jersey." He marches off, intent on the table and the clipboard currently housing his bid for the custom hockey sweater.

Free of the painful small talk, I make a loop of the room.

But Rory doesn't magically appear.

And there's not a crystal-dotted heel or a lost charm from her bracelet left behind to show me where to continue my search.

Fuck.

I slip from the crowded room, the air in the hallway immediately cooler, the noise dulled, then pause to think.

Kitchens to check on the cakes that should be coming out soon for the patrons to bid on.

Or bathroom to swap out those heels, take a much-needed breather.

Since that's the one that seems the most likely, I start down the hall.

Then freeze when I see a familiar face.

My mind doesn't immediately process the sight, isn't able to fit the pieces together.

Because she doesn't belong here.

She shouldn't be here.

And Rory's missing.

And…

I start walking faster, seeing her eyes widen as I approach, her face paling, feet skittering back.

"Stacy," I snap. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

"King," she says, and then I watch her transform, her tone becoming silky, her body coming close as she reaches for me. "I didn't know you'd be here. We should?—"

I bat her hand away.

Like hell, she didn't know I was going to be here.

This was her sister's big event and she's a fucking twat and the mean glint on the edges of her expression tells me enough.

She'll do anything to compete with her sister.

And she'll do more if it means one-upping her.

Getting back at her.

Fucking with her life, with this event that's so important to Rory.

I'm not going to let that happen.

"Where is she?"

Stacy's bottom lip slides out and she reaches for me again. "Don't worry about Rory," she purrs, running a hand down my chest. "We should talk." Her mouth curves and I know she's going for sexy, for alluring, but it doesn't fucking work.

Because I can see the rotten core of her.

"I've learned some things and?—"

I grab her wrist, yank her hand away from me. "Don't."

That pout grows, but I just shove her arm toward her body, take a step back so that this disgusting human can't touch me again.

"Where. The fuck. Is Rory?"

My tone seems to finally get through to her because she doesn't try to touch me again. "I don't know," she snaps, hissy fit brewing. "And I don't care."

But her gaze darts to the side—to the closed bathroom door—and?—

Fuck it.

I'm so done with this conversation.

I turn my back on Stacy, ignore the blue plastic cutout of a woman in a dress mounted there on the door, and push into the women's bathroom, not giving a fuck who I might scar on the other side, not giving a fuck when the heavy wooden panel slams into the wall.

Because then I see it.

See her.

And my temper boils over.