Total pages in book: 145
Estimated words: 141425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 707(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 707(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
“Favor, man,” I say.
“Name it.”
“I need you to switch VIP groups with me for the tour. Can you do yours at five-thirty? And I’ll take your five-forty group.”
He gives a why not shrug. It’s that easy. “Done.”
Friends. They’ve got your back. Then I beeline for my brother in the locker room and pull him aside. “Need something from you.”
“Another ass-kicking?”
I roll my eyes. “Along those lines.” Lowering my voice, I add, “Think you can make sure Leighton keeps Sabrina out of the corridor before the five-thirty tour, then brings her to the corridor by the tunnel around, say, five-forty-four?”
My brother studies me for a beat, maybe making sure I’m not pulling a fast one. “You’ve got this mapped out down to the minute?”
“Pretty much.”
At 5:39 on the dot, I’m suited up in pads, my jersey, skates and all. Ready and waiting at the authorized personnel entrance. Rowan already finished the VIP group I invited, and Leighton must have kept Sabrina occupied. Now all I have to do is handle the douche tour.
A minute later, Everly swings open the door, and a kernel of guilt wedges into my chest. I hope she doesn’t hate me for what’s about to go down. But a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do. Besides, these fuckers don’t deserve to pay their way into our arena, no matter what the cost is.
For the first time I come face-to-face with the man Sabrina was going to marry. With slicked back blond hair and a smarmy smile, he’s precisely what I pictured. He’s wearing stone-washed jeans and a jersey for another team. The Las Vegas Sabers. And yeah, I don’t feel an ounce of guilt.
He sticks out a hand. “Dude, I wish I could say I’m rooting for you tonight, but you gotta be loyal to the home team, right?”
I shake, crunching on his bones so hard he gulps. “You know it,” I say, letting go before I break something.
I swing my gaze to her father, like I’m assessing an opponent on the ice. He wears pressed khakis and a button-down. His dark hair is peppered with gray and his shave is smooth. I loathe him with every fiber of my being, and I don’t bother doing a thing but staring at him with knives in my eyes.
He flinches, and recognition flickers in his irises for a beat. I wonder if he’s going to mention his daughter to me, but instead he flicks a piece of unseen lint off his shoulder.
That’s fine by me. I’m up for the element of surprise too.
“And here is your group, Tyler,” Everly says to me, then to the pack of dude bros with them—because holy fuck—Chad and Sabrina’s Dad brought out a six-pack of asshats. I can tell their breed by the overwhelming aroma of body spray and the heads of gelled hair. Plus, all these guys have that dude bro look to them. So, fuck them.
“This is Tyler Falcon, number forty-four, one of our top defensemen,” Everly says. “He’ll be conducting your tour.”
“Thanks, Everly,” I say, then gesture down the hall. “Let me show you gentlemen around.” Even though that title is a lie.
They’re all sales-y types, showboat-y, snapping pics of themselves against posters of the Sea Dogs in the hall, cracking jokes about how lucky the Sea Dogs are to have them as VIP fans, and maybe they can pick up women at the game like the players must, then trying to peer into the locker room, even though it’s off-limits.
“But we could just pretend we’re on the team, right?” Chad says, and I want to wipe the smug smile off his face.
But all in due time.
“Probably not,” I say, with my most charming fucking voice possible. “Or we might have to get the whole team to escort you out.”
He blinks. “You’d do that?”
“You have no idea what I’d do,” I say coldly, meaning it completely, then adding a just kidding smile. Since it’s not quite time yet.
Almost, but not quite.
I guide them down the hall toward the tunnel. “And this is the tunnel. We go through here before we hit the ice. And yep, you can walk on the floor with skates.”
“Impressive,” Sabrina’s father says, eyeing the sturdy floor, tapping it with his wingtips as he finally speaks for the first time. “Truly impressive everything that goes into the operation. Isn’t it, gentlemen?”
And…he’s even worse than I’d imagined. He truly only cares about appearances. About impressing people—whoever these frat boys are snapping endless pics of their annoying faces.
There’s no remorse in me for what I’m about to do. Right on time, I clear my throat. “Thanks again for coming. There are just a few things I wanted to share before the game tonight,” I say, and the men stop cracking jokes and turn to me right as I hear footsteps grow louder. Sneakers for sure. Along with boots, I think. Sabrina would still be in her warm-up clothes, so I’m praying the sneakers are hers, and that Leighton’s wearing the boots.