20. Renee

Hockey is, by nature, a violent sport. It’s twelve testosterone-fueled giants with swords strapped to their feet and giant whacky sticks in their hands, flying around a slick surface at high speed and ramming into each other with no regard for decency or dental health.

It’s even more dangerous when one of those twelve is Weston Scott.

And it’s more dangerous still when Weston Scott is this pissed off.

He takes the ice with his nostrils flared like an angry dragon. Even from my position in the stands behind the Firebirds bench, I can see he is in an all-caps MOOD. From the second the puck drops until the second the final buzzer sounds, he is a one-man wrecking ball. He’s everywhere at once, a blur of sweaty hair and golden jersey. Smashing, stealing, scoring, snarling.

I’m still pissed at him. But even I have to admit that the dude is photogenic. By the time everything is over, my camera roll is chock full of money shots.

Weston scoring, and scoring, and scoring again.

Weston skating like the wind.

Weston sitting and scowling in the penalty box after hitting an opposing player so hard that the guy’s ancestors probably winced in their graves.

I stick around after the game to watch Coach Hud do his postgame press conference. I catch a couple of good clips for sound bites and then I’m out. It’s been a long day and I’m exhausted. As I slump my way out of the conference room and toward the social media offices, I can barely keep my eyes open. Game days are apparently all going to be like this.

This season might be the death of me.

And yet, as tired as my body is, my soul is lit up. I love this job. It’s exciting, it’s demanding, it’s satisfying—the list of pros goes on and on. The name “Weston Scott” is nowhere on that list, but as long as he stays out of my way, I’ll stay out of his.

Hopefully, that is the same takeaway he got out of our conversation.

After I put my camera equipment away, I lock my office and turn to leave. Bed is screaming my name. But?—

“Hey, girl!”

Danni and Michelle are standing together side by side with twin evil smiles like the girls from The Shining.

“We’re going out.” Danni grins wickedly. “And we think you should go with us. Girls’ night.”

“Oh, jeez, I’m pretty beat?—”

“It’s girls’ night. You’re a girl and it’s night. Ipso facto…” Michelle shrugs like it’s all out of her hands and the decision has been made and concludes, “ … you have to go.”

“In case you’re missing it,” Danni clarifies, “this is peer pressure. And you’re about to give in to the bad influences that are standing in front of you.”

I haven’t had a girls’ night in… I can’t remember the last time. Sutton and I haven’t been in the same time zone for years. And Fuckhead Felix didn’t like me to hang with the girls.

I just wish I hadn’t worked a fourteen-hour day and I wasn’t so tired. “Game days are long.” I’m trying to back out gracefully.

“Yes, they are. And we deal with them by taking the next morning off. We work from noon to four after game days. And if there are two game days in a row, there’s a long weekend.” Danni smiles. “Check your contract.”

I don’t know if it’s true or not, but if so, I’m a huge fan of whoever wrote the thing.

“Oh, come on. You have to join.” Michelle hooks her arm through mine and whirls me toward the elevator. “I just went through a bad breakup and I need some time with the girls. Come on. Be a friend.”

Now, that is peer pressure, and I’m an easy mark. I’ve been through my own bad breakup in the recent past. “Alright, fine. I’m in. But I’m gonna need to mainline a Red Bull first.”

“Duh,” Danni chuckles, bumping my hip with hers.

Michelle laughs. “As if there’s any other way to do it.”

Their energy is contagious and the Red Bull gives me wings. By the time we get to the bar and order our first round of drinks, I’m ready for a fun night with my new friends.

“So, Inquisition Time starts now. Where are you from originally?” Danni pops a complimentary chip smothered in complimentary queso into her mouth.

“I grew up in Chicago.” Chicago Heights, actually, but it’s a distinction without a difference to those not in the know, so I don’t bother mentioning it. “My parents still have a house there.” It’s a six-thousand square foot house on a beautiful street full of other six-thousand square foot homes—but I don’t mention that part, either.

“I’m from St. Charles!” Michelle reaches across the table for my hand like we’re soul sisters just because we grew up in the same dusty, frigid northern part of Illinois. “Well, not really from from. My dad moved us around a lot.”

“Military?”

She laughs. “No. Drunk. He followed Mom and Mom followed jobs. She worked for some hoity-toity rich bitch who needed her dogs walked and her cars washed and her life managed. When the woman moved to L.A., Mom uprooted me and my seven brothers to come along.”

“Seven brothers? Holy hell. What about your dad?”

“Dead.” She shrugs. “Can’t drink like that and expect your liver to hold up its’ end of the deal.”

She has a valid point. I look at Danni. “What about you? Where are you from?”

“Most recently, Monterey. Married a guy, moved into his house. Found him banging the neighbor, so I left. Although I won’t divorce him so he can marry her. And that bitch should thank me for my service.” She tilts her head as we all giggle. “Anyway, then I moved to L.A. to be an actress. Got a job as a PR guru for a hockey team instead. Such is life.”

“Do you still act?” I ask, sipping my margarita.

“Sort of. I still do theater. Just not for money.” She lifts her glass in a toast. “Anyway, more drinky, less talky. To the people who drove us away and helped make us who we are today.”

I raise my glass. “Hear hear!”

An hour later, I’m drunk. Not just tipsy, but plastered. Danni has a thing for buying shots and I’m not so rude as to decline.

As a matter of fact, I’m drunk enough to have told them my biggest secret. “His name is Deacon Carrington.”

“Wait. Wait. Wait.” Michelle is a few notches past tipsy herself. She leans forward, one wobbly finger in the air. “Your parents picked out your husband?”

“Fiancé. Never married him.” I shake my head in disgust. “‘I, Renee DuBois, take thee, Deacon Carrington…’ Gross. No thank you. I was not holding my peace, nor his. He had a very little piece.”

Michelle spits out her drink as we all burst into laughter. Danni is doubled over, tears in her eyes, when we hear a sudden ruckus from the entryway.

All three of us swivel in unison…

To see the stars of the Los Angeles Firebirds come waltzing through the bar.

“Oh, you gotta be fucking kidding me,” I mutter. Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world…

“I see you’ve already learned to hate our resident asshole,” remarks Danni with an amused, lopsided smile.

“He thinks I’m stalking him because a box of my underwear spontaneously exploded in front of him in the hallway.” I down the rest of my drink in a hurry.

Michelle’s eyes bug out. “Your who did what and where?!”

“Yep. Busted right open at his feet. He had a birds’ eye view of my worst granny panties. You should’ve seen the look of disgust on his face.”

“Bastard.” Danni shakes her head.

“And then he accused me of stalking him. Which is hilarious because, until I saw him on the ice, I had no idea who he was. He actually…” I gulp. “He actually tried to get me to quit.”

Michelle puts her hand over mine. “Well, screw him. Since you took over the socials, there is so much more interaction online. Ticket sales are up. You’re kicking ass.”

I bask for a second in the praise. “Thanks.”

“Speaking of which, we’ve been meaning to ask you: do you want to help us with the charity auction? It’s black tie, super posh. We’re going over the top for the kiddies this year. All the money goes to the children’s hospital and we could use the extra hand.”

A chance to drag out some of Sutton’s Dior? Say no more.

“Count me in,” I tell her.

Over her shoulder, I see Weston saunter away. He didn’t see us, thank God. This is a good night. A fun night. I’ve got my people, I’ve got a job I enjoy—this could be a new life for me. This is what I left home for.

Everything is gonna be alright.

As long as Weston Scott doesn’t ruin it.