41. Renee

“How cool is this?!” Sutton shouts over the sound of thirty thousand screaming fans, an organ playing fire-up music, and various random noisemakers given as party favors to a crowd that is dying to watch the Firebirds mercilessly whip the Thunderstrokes from Portland.

I’m sitting in a sky box with Michelle, Danni, Sutton, and Hunter, and we’re watching the Firebirds pour out of the tunnel at the end of the first intermission. I’m full to bursting with beer and hot dogs and grateful that we’re settling back into our seats as the game resumes.

Usually, I sit behind the bench, but Sutton doesn’t get to do a lot of just hanging out in a crowd because of who she is. Fame isn’t always all it’s cracked up to be, or so she tells me—hence the skybox.

I don’t mind. I love being near the players, in the crowd, all mixed up in the excitement, but the box does have its perks. A private bathroom is high on that list.

Hunter is standing at the rail. He’s leaning over, shouting, whistling, intently watching the game. Tonight, he’s more wired than usual. It’s easy to see how much he misses the sport.

“How come you don’t play anymore?” I ask, moving to stand beside him.

He doesn’t take his eyes off the whirring action on the ice. “I got hurt. Blew out my knee on a bad crosscheck. Doctor said I’ll never be back at full strength and if I reinjured it, I could end up in a wheelchair.” He shrugs. “I was willing to risk it, but no team was.”

When he shakes his head, I can feel his sadness. It’s palpable and huge enough that it takes my breath away for a second. Sorrow. That’s the only word for it. Something he loved got ripped right out of his hands.

Then he pastes on his megawatt smile and that feeling disappears. “Now, I live vicariously through Westy.”

“Don’t we all?” I joke weakly, still shook by that strange moment of connection. We both chuckle and then he looks out at the game again.

Weston has the puck on a breakaway, racing toward the other goalie. The crowd is going apeshit. He winds up, fakes the shot, draws the goalie out of the net, and then skates around him and slides the puck into the net behind him.

GOAL, Firebirds.

The crowd erupts. Hunter jumps onto the rail like a maniac and bellows Weston’s name. For a moment, I’m vibrating with the sheer volume of the roaring and the blaring horn.

Then it all settles back down. Hunter hops to his feet and resumes the conversation right where we left off. “Weston’s sister Molly helped me out during my recovery.” He smiles, obviously fond of some memory that saying her name brings. “Have you met Molly?”

“No.” And if Weston has his way, I probably never will. “Did you ever date her?”

I don’t know why that question popped out, but now that it has, I’m curious.

He shakes his head and I get a taste of that sorrow again, that melancholy. “No. The chances of Weston taking the stick out of his ass long enough to let me near her aren’t so good. I dunno if you’ve noticed this, but he’s what one might call ‘overprotective.’”

I like that Hunter is respectful of his friendship with Weston, despite the ridiculous boundaries Weston has set for him. There’s a story there, I think. Hunter and Molly and Weston—and maybe Jackson mixed in there, too, if Sutton’s version of events is to be believed.

“Weston doesn’t deserve you.”

I smile at Hunter because right now, I think he needs someone in his corner, someone who can see his pain and doesn’t just ignore it so he doesn’t have to deal with it. Not that I’m judging Weston, but… well, fine, I’m judging Weston.

“He doesn’t deserve you, either.” He throws his head back, slings his arm around my shoulders, and starts to sing along to some arena rock at full volume.

I frown as I watch him. His pupils are dilated and his moods are all over the map. He’s either high or he ate some bad shrimp. My money is on the former.

I haven’t brought up his drug use since that first time because Weston took it so badly, but I think someone needs to have a chat with Hunter about it sooner rather than later. I would hate to see something happen to him because no one dared try to help for fear of pissing him or his BFF off.

But now’s not the time to broach the subject. Plus, I don’t know him well enough for that. Instead, I grin at him. “Glad you agree.”

When the song ends, Hunter’s arm abruptly falls from around my shoulders. “I’m going to head out.” He gives me a friendly kiss on the cheek. “Tell Weston I’ll see him at his place later on.”

I don’t bother asking where he’s going. He’s getting jittery and it has nothing to do with the excitement of the game.

Which means one thing: it’s time for a hit.

I don’t bother pressing him into a corner just to force out some half-assed lie. I nod instead and continue watching the action down on the ice.

As soon as he’s gone, Sutton nudges my shoulder. “Something going on there, too?” she asks, eyebrows lifted.

“Nooo. Definitely not. Hunter is Weston’s bestie. And even if I was into that—which I’m not—it sounds like he’s got history with Molly. There’s a story there, I think.”

Before Sutton can ask any follow-up questions, the Firebirds score again. Orion, this time. I cheer, Michelle and Danni join us at the rail, and the conversation meanders onto other topics, thankfully.

When the game is almost over, we head down to ice level. Michelle and Danni asked Sutton to take some publicity photos with the team and she graciously agreed. She always looks like she’s just stepped out of a magazine—she’s fashionable and her makeup is ten-out-of-ten flawless—and the pictures will help drive traffic to the team’s socials.

I stand and watch the last few minutes of the game, what little I can see. The view from the tunnel is limited and so I see just a patch of the ice, but every time Weston passes in my field of vision, my stomach clenches.

There’s no real reason for it. He and I haven’t interacted since the elevator, unless his hallway grunt counts, which it doesn’t. So there’s no reason why I should have to clench my thighs watching him play hockey. Even if it is weirdly erotic for a sport that involves a bunch of sweaty men trying to hug each other.

I sigh and tear my eyes away as the final whistle blows. The teams troop off the ice.

Orion comes back first. When he sees me, he lifts me into a sweaty hug. “How ya doin’, kiddo?” he asks when he sets me back on my feet.

“Living the dream,” I tell him with a smile. “Do you know Sutton Medina?”

He turns to Sutton, who’s radiating beauty at my side, and offers his ungloved hand for her to shake. “Orion Beckstrom,” he says.

He’s cool as can be—sweaty hair slicked back, looming huge in his skates and pads, with that beard of his trimmed close to his jaw.

“Nice to meet you. I’m Sutton,” she purrs back at him. “Nice game.”

It takes me a second to realize why her voice makes me do a double-take—it’s because that’s her flirty voice.

I laugh inwardly. Orion and Sutton—it makes a lot of sense, if you think about it. But before I can push the issue, the rest of the team comes parading through.

Sutton is suddenly the center of attention. All the guys are shaking her hand and complimenting her movies and she’s laughing prettily like she does best. But I don’t miss how her eyes keep flitting back to Orion, again and again, even as he drifts to the edge of the huddle.

Michelle and Danni start arranging everyone for pictures. I’m scanning the ranks again and again, but Weston is nowhere to be found.

Until I hear a thump at the mouth of the tunnel and look over to see him there. He’s got his usual scowl pasted on his face. And doesn’t it figure? Even scowling, he’s gorgeous enough to make me shiver.

Then he looks at me and the scowl fades. Maybe “fades” is the wrong word. It doesn’t fade; it changes into something else, something raw and feral, something so fucking lustful I can hardly breathe.

He’s smoldering.

At me.

Just like that, I’m weak. Weak-kneed, weak-willed, weak in every sense. I would say I’m pathetic when it comes to Weston, who can’t decide if he wants me or loathes me, so maybe I’m suffering sexual whiplash from all the mixed signals.

All excuses aside, the bottom line is that I’m equal parts ashamed and horny. Not that I have any idea what to do about either.

But then he chews his lower lip, half-smiles, and I don’t have any more questions. Not because he’s answered anything, but because once again, I can’t think straight.

And it’s all his damn fault.