33. Renee

Game one of the regular season is a jarring reminder of just how loud stadiums get.

It’s sensory overload. Screaming, lights, tears, applause, dancing, mascots doing backflips in skates—everywhere I look, there’s some new stimulus making my brain go haywire. I take about a thousand pictures and it’s only the first game of a five-game road stand. The whole thing passes in the blink of an eye. I’m still dizzy by the time the final buzzer sounds.

It’s a good night. A great night, even.

Until it all goes south in a hurry.

It isn’t until we’re at the hotel in Seattle that the hotel gods or fate or that bitch at the front desk who, in what can only be some sort of sick joke, see an opportunity to make me suffer.

I’m in Room 401. A nice room, king-size bed, massive bathtub and shower. No complaints there. The TV is huge and the snack bar is free. No complaints there, either.

But as I go searching for the closet, I open an unmarked door…

And come face-to-face—correction, face-to-bare-chest—with Weston Scott.

This isn’t a closet door—it’s an adjoining door. So of course, the one man I least want to see has been assigned the room on the other side of it.

He opens his mouth, smirk twisting his features, but before he can get a word in edgewise, I slam my side shut and throw the deadbolt home.

“Great,” I mutter to myself. “Played that one really cool, Renee.”

My pulse is pounding in my temples and my thighs are quivering. It’s unfair that a man who acts like that also has to look like that. Chiseled chest, rippling arms, a smattering of dark chest hair—it’s just all too damn much.

My mind immediately veers to the vibrator Sutton got me that I just so happened to have thrown in my suitcase at the last minute.

But I have fifteen minutes to shower and get my ass to the bar downstairs, where Michelle and Danni are waiting for me before we all head out to the afterparty spot to celebrate the big win.

As I get ready, I make a solemn promise to myself not to think about sharing a room—well, a door—with Weston.

Not until I’m back in the room with my vibrator, anyway.

After my shower, I throw on a black dress and some flats, run a quick brush through my hair, then make my way to the lobby. Danni and Michelle are seated at the corner of the bar with martinis in front of them. The TV overhead is showing replays from tonight.

Weston scoring is at the top of the reel. Most of the rest of it is devoted to an opposing player for the Seattle Wave. He’s a blur in blue, zipping and scoring a pair of nasty goals in quick succession.

I nudge Michelle. “Who’s the lightning bolt?” I ask, pointing at the screen.

“That’s Beck Daniels. He’s a party boy fuck-up. Rumor has it, the Wave had to hire him a handler. She went in and tossed all the alcohol and the drugs, ran off whatever bimbo he was on top of, then laid down the law. There’s a story there.”

“Sounds like it,” I mutter.

I watch more of the footage as Beck picks up his speed and crushes Orion against the boards. They called a penalty, Weston scored on the power play, and that was game over.

Seattle Wave loss. Firebirds win.

Tonight’s game was a big vindication, because Seattle knocked us out of the playoffs last year. But it’s not until we get to the afterparty bar that I realize just how big of a vindication it is. The whole organization is there and everyone is rowdy. Shots are circulating from front office staff to the social media team, to players, to trainers, to coaches—everybody and their mother is getting frisky.

And it’s on the team’s tab, so why not?

I’m still wincing after a particularly spicy tequila shot when I hear a voice murmuring at my arm.

“Hello, beautiful.”

I turn and yelp when an arm slides around my waist and propels me into the stranger’s body. He’s not one of the team; I know all of them and this guy is not one bit familiar. He smells like whiskey. Not the good stuff, but old whiskey, stale whiskey, whiskey that may or may not have been previously regurgitated.

“Wanna dance?”

“I, uh?—”

He doesn’t give me a chance to say no, and between the tequila and the euphoria of the busy night and the shock of Weston’s bare chest still dancing in my mind, I can’t really find the words.

He whirls me around the floor expertly. The dude may reek of whiskey, but he can definitely dance. I’m getting spun like a top, here, there, and everywhere in between.

Midway through one flourish, I glance into the corner?—

And I see Weston watching.

I only catch the briefest glimpse of him before the song hits a crescendo and Whiskey Man reels me back in close, but I know that pinched green look on Weston’s face.

He’s jealous.

And call me petty—Lord knows that’s well-earned—but I love that he’s jealous. I also love that he’s alone at his table all by his lonesome. Not a puck bunny to be seen.

Maybe being this thrilled that he’s sour and marooned on a high-top island is a blight against our truce, but screw it—I’m not the bigger person. And I don’t give a shit. Or maybe it’s the tequila shooters that make me not care.

Unfortunately, my dance partner has a slight behavior problem. By that, I mean he can’t keep his hands in PG-13 territory. One hand is currently planted on my ass and the other is holding my waist.

I push back against his chest at the same time he holds me tighter, then squeezes my left boob with the ass-grabbing hand.

“Hey!”

“Relax, sweetheart,” he croons in my ear with stinky whiskey breath. “We’re just havin’ a good time.”

“Get your hand off my tit.”

“You grabbed mine first,” he cackles. He slurs his words right in my face and I can taste his breath. It’s enough to make a girl want to vomit.

“I pushed yours. Take the hint.”

His face screws up. “Take a hint yourself. Tell you what—I’ll let you take something else, too. A nice taste of my?—”

BOOM.

One minute, he was there; the next, he’s gone.

I was just about to read him the riot act and throat punch him into the next plane of existence, but by the looks of it, someone else got there first.

Whiskey Man is flat on the ground. Eyes closed. Out cold.

And Weston is standing over both of us like a fucking tower of badassness.

“What a shame,” I whisper sarcastically. “I never got his name.”

Weston takes me by the arm and yanks me away from the guy. “You don’t need his fucking name,” he mutters under his breath as he drags me out of the bar.

My head is still spinning. I let out a delirious little giggle. “Are we leaving the party? So soon?”

He throws me into a waiting cab and piles in after me. “Yeah, we are. You’re drunk, and it’s time to go back to your room. Our room, rather. Before some other idiot tries putting his hands on what’s mine.”