Chapter Six

Brent

Zoey stares straight ahead, arms crossed, fuming at whatever the hell she thinks I did. You'd think after all these years of her cold shoulder at mutual friend's events that I'd be used to it by now but for some reason, I thought I was gaining ground with her—I was wrong.

The silent treatment drags on and I'm over this.

"Did I miss something?" I ask, my hands tightening around the leather steering wheel as I glance over at Zoey. "What are you pissed off about now?"

She huffs, debating whether or not to engage, but she finally does.

"We're going to be late now because you needed your ego stroked," she snaps, breaking her silence. "Or was it something else that you were looking to get stroked, since you struck out with the flight attendant earlier."

I resist the urge to smirk. She's fishing for a reaction from me, but I won't be giving her one.

"Struck out? I don't think that's how it happened. But even if it did, my ego isn't that fragile. I'm sure that's disappointing for you to hear." I let out a slow breath, keeping my tone even. "Those people back there are fans. And I'll always make time for a quick autograph or photo with them if I get the chance—it's part of the deal." I know she's been anxious about getting to the hotel, so guilt tugs at me for not wrapping it up sooner. "But hey, I'm sorry we're going to be a little late."

I know getting there early and checking in before the party was important to her, and I didn't want to be late for the welcome drinks either, but I couldn't just ignore the women who surrounded me within minutes of me exiting the car. Even after all these years of being in the public eye, I still haven't found a polite way to tell hockey supporters that I have to get back to my life.

My intention was to meet Zoey at the door, grab her bag from her, load it in the back with the rest of our stuff, and then take off. But then I was spotted as soon as I stepped out of the SUV and the crowd grew from there.

"Oh," she says with fake surprise, "Your job is to flirt with your fans and lead them on? A player on and off the ice." That last part she mutters as she turns to stare out her side window.

"Wait… you think I'm a player?"

Zoey glances back at me, rolling her eyes.

"What do you call the women you're photographed with on dates but never seen with again? Of course, you're a player."

I lift an eyebrow at her feeble attempt at evidence. How does she know they're not the ones ghosting me?

If she ever bothered to ask, I'd tell her that half the women I'm spotted with are friends or women that my agent sets me up with for events — usually for cross-promotion. Models—actresses… women who either don't want to go solo or feel safe showing up with me when there's a possibility of crazy fans or stalkers being at the event. I'm also a great dancer, and a hell of a good time at a party, but I guess it's on me that Zoey never got to experience that firsthand.

The other half… Well, not all dates make it past dinner. Hell, most of them don't seem to make it past drinks. But for the ones that do, the terms are mutual and temporary, let's just say that. I haven't had a lot of extra bandwidth since my parents passed. Taking care of Gran, Tessa and my career hasn't left much room for anything else. But I'm not breaking any hearts despite what Zoey thinks.

"Taking women on dates doesn't make me a player," I say, my tone steady.

I hear Zoey scoff instantly, her eyes narrowing. "That sounds exactly like what a player would say."

A text comes in on Zoey's phone—I can see Phoebe as the contact from the corner of my eye. I'm sure she is asking why we aren't there.

I turn left at the next light wondering how I'm going to get through to her—convince her that I'm not who she thinks I am.

"I'd have to play someone to actually earn the title," I tell her. "And you act as if I'm leading every woman I take to dinner on some false pretenses."

She crosses her arms, giving me a hard look. "Sounds like you're splitting hairs here in order for you to clear your conscience. What are you going to tell me next? That you don't sleep with any of them?"

"I'm not going to tell you that because we both know it would be a lie," I ease into the breaks at a red light. "But I'm upfront about what I can offer and what I can't, and the women I date are on the same page. We're both adults." I glance over, giving her a single raised brow. "And I don't sleep with any of them. I sleep better in my own bed… alone."

"Alone… see, I'm guessing that's exactly why your grandmother is trying to set you up. She's worried about you."

"Really? Is she the only one that worries about it? Because you're the one wanting to have this conversation. Why exactly do you care if I'm a player or not? Or if I'm photographed with a different model every week?" I ask, easing back on the gas when the light turns green.

She cocks an eyebrow—an annoyed look on her face.

She clears her throat and tries to pass off an uninterested expression, but she wouldn't be this defensive if she didn't care. What I don't understand is why?

"I don't care. Stay single forever if you want, it doesn't change my life in the least. But I'm here because you had to lie to your grandmother so that she wouldn't set you up this weekend. She must have a reason to think you'll end up a bachelor for life."

Hearing her say that her life isn't affected by me being single stings in a way I wasn't prepared for.

"Maybe I just haven't met the right girl," I say casually, though the weight of my statement lingers between us.

She wasn't expecting me to say that, and maybe I'm surprised by it too. Not because I planned on being a bachelor for life, but because I admitted it to Zoey.

Her voice softens. "Will you actually settle down if you find her?" she asks, turning to look at me.

I meet her gaze, and I don't mean to, but my eyes drop to her full mouth for a split second before returning to the road. I can't count the times I've thought of kissing Zoey, though I'll never get the chance. She'll never belong to me.

Another text comes in on Zoey's phone. I don't have to guess that Zoey's text is from Phoebe again.

"Yeah. When I find her… I'll settle down," I admit, but Zoey is enthralled in her conversation with Phoebe, probably telling her that us being late is my fault.

I turn the steering wheel to the right and into the hotel parking lot.

It's just as well. This conversation was getting past the depth I planned on getting with Zoey this weekend. In fact, I didn't think she'd speak to me at all.

She might think of me as a player, but in the last several hours, she's spoken to me more than she has in the last ten years.

It's an improvement.