Chapter Six
Dani
" J esus," I mutter, staring in shock as Trent winds up the circular driveway toward Colt Brisbane's house in his truck. The place looks exactly like you'd imagine a mansion at Christmas, only…more horrifyingly festive.
It's one part ski lodge, one part Vegas strip, and a final, frightening dash of Tim Burton chic. The whole front lawn is crusted with snow and inflatable reindeer that leer at us all the way up the drive.
Colored spotlights situated on the ground bounce off every window, sending a lightshow of snowflakes swimming across the frosted glass.
At least six more inflatable reindeer are tangled in the landscaping. At first, I think they've become accidentally stuck in the bushes in somewhat suggestive positions, but when Trent sees me staring, he just shrugs.
"Last year, he had live deer wandering around. One nearly got stuck in his neighbor's pool. They had to call animal control. He toned it down this year."
That's…honestly not even surprising. The goalie, Briggs Ward, is the most normal member of the team. Everyone else is questionable.
Trent helps me out of the truck, keeping me tucked close to his side. I smooth my hands down my coat, quietly trying not to hyperventilate. Telling myself that I know these guys doesn't really help. It's just another reminder that the last place I should be is here, at their party, on Trent's arm.
I'm definitely getting a pink slip for Christmas.
It's too late to back out now, though. Trent is already bustling me through the massive front door.
The foyer is the size of my entire apartment.
A Christmas tree so big it needs its own zip code hovers over an entire mountain of presents.
There's a twelve-foot inflatable Santa waving from the corner.
And there are at least two hockey teams' worth of children running around, most of whom are already hopped up on red-and-green cupcakes.
The evidence is smeared all over their excited little faces.
I cling to the front door for a solid five seconds, watching a pair of five-or-six-year-olds break the sound barrier on a hoverboard before a third one careens into the wall .
He hops right up, laughing. "That was awesome! I wanna do it again!"
"Welcome to Christmas in the league," Trent says, grinning like a lunatic as he helps me with my coat.
I think about clinging to it for a split second before reluctantly relinquishing it into his hands.
I'm wearing a cheap little red dress with white trim.
The kind that seemed cute and festive when I bought it online last month, but turned out to be the wardrobe equivalent of a candy cane wrapper in reality.
The hem ends too far above mid-thigh to be remotely comfortable, and the puffy sleeves make my arms look like I'm wearing hockey pads.
The rest of it is so tight I'm worried I might pop a seam.
I paired it with a pair of black boots and opaque white tights to save my dignity.
Naturally, Trent looks like an actual model. He's wearing a navy suit, a red Santa hat, and an expression so smug I want to kiss it right off his face.
He places his hand on the small of my back as soon as my coat is tossed over a bench, steadying me as a couple of his teammates and their significant others crowd the entryway to say hello.
"Hey, Kirk!" someone yells from the second floor.
I look up just in time to see several shirtless men hurling candy canes at the Christmas tree.
One of them—probably Ryan, judging from the tribal sleeve and the fact that he's loud as hell—nails Trent in the forehead with an alarming level of accuracy.
Trent doesn't even blink. He just grins, picks up the candy cane, and tucks it behind my ear.
"Uh…thanks?"
"They do this every year."
Why am I not surprised?
I follow Trent through a gauntlet of greetings with my heart in my throat. Every player's girlfriend, wife, or bunny-of-the-week sizes me up with lightning efficiency and then either gives me a hug, if they like me, or a simile of a smile, which I take to mean they can't stand me.
The guys on the team fist-bump me like we're old college buddies, smirking between me and Trent as if they have a whole lot to say and are reining it in. I'm not entirely sure if that's for my sake or his. I'm also not entirely sure I want to know which it is.
Ryan, Colt, Karsen Daughtry, Cale Vaught, and Briggs Ward are the only ones without a wife, girlfriend, or puck bunny on their arms. Colt, Karsen, Cale, and Briggs are huddled in a group off to the side and wave us over.
"Good to see you, Dani," Colt murmurs, giving me a genuine smile.
"Thanks," I whisper.
Briggs shoots me a grin and then jerks his chin in a nod, but doesn't say anything. Karsen and Cale both say hello .
"I thought you'd still be laid up, dying," Colt says to Trent, who flips him off.
"Did you know that your hives had hives yesterday?" Karsen asks. "I've never seen anyone swell that fast. How much of her fudge did you eat?"
"He was probably shoveling it in like a fuckin' kid in a candy store," Cale retorts, chuckling.
"Fuck yeah, I was. It was delicious."
I spend the next five minutes toggling between being overwhelmed and guilty while the guys razz the hell out of Trent about almost dying yesterday.
The nervous bubble in my stomach only grows every time I peek up at Trent, only to find his eyes already on me. He's not just looking, either. He's watching me like he's waiting for me to run, screaming into the night.
He doesn't let me go, not once. His hand is warm on the small of my back, anchoring me to him like I'm liable to drift away.
Maybe I am.
I've never felt so out of place before.
A pack of puck bunnies converging around the dessert table doesn't help.
They form a wall of hair extensions and eyelash glue, dressed in designer brands and four-inch heels as they sip festive cocktails and shoot me smiles full of gritted teeth and disapproval.
They're playing nice, in that cutthroat, merciless way that makes me want to break out in hives.
"You hungry?" Trent whispers when he notices me glancing toward the table, his fingers stroking my side.
"Um…" I sneak another peek at the table, my stomach churning. But before I can tell him that I'd rather starve than wade into those bunny-infested trenches, he's already leading me in that direction.
The bunnies part like the Red Sea around us. One tries to say something to Trent, but he doesn't even look in her direction.
"This looks way better than hospital Jello," he murmurs to me, loading up a plate with a little bit of everything. "But I still wish it were your fudge, Sunshine."
A puck bunny snorts loudly into her drink.
I just smile and keep loading my own plate. I kind of hope she chokes on her jealousy. And maybe that makes me terrible, but it doesn't matter how much they preen and bat their fake lashes at him. He'll never want them. They don't even know the first thing about him.
I do. Little by little over the last few months, he's opened up to me. He's shared pieces of his world. I know how he thinks and what makes him laugh. I know what he loves and what annoys the hell out of him. I know that hockey is his life, and his family means everything to him.
And I know that he'd never demand that a single one of these women sit at his side in the ER while he's in a hospital gown, covered in hives, miserable and vulnerable.
He'd never guilt them into staying the night with him.
Frankly, he never pays them any attention at all because they don't even exist to him.
But he faked an injury for weeks just to spend time with me.
Something about that makes me feel better, like the ground is solidifying beneath my feet a little bit.
He grabs a pair of champagne glasses from a passing waiter and leads me toward a less crowded corner of the house while they glare daggers at our retreating backs.
The kitchen is occupied by several of the older players and their kids, who are building a snowman out of Rice Krispies and marshmallow fluff. One of the kids is eating the carrot nose, while a toddler in a red turtleneck licks the counter with terrifying focus.
Trent lifts me up onto a barstool so we're eye-level, then pulls up right beside me, his thigh pressing into mine.
"You okay?" he asks, his voice low.
"Yeah," I say, nodding. "It's just…a lot."
He leans in, his voice barely above a growl. "Want me to call a code red and fake a medical emergency? I can pretend I'm dying again. I have recent experience, you know."
"Please don't," I mutter, but the fact that he would makes me smile, which seems to make him happy.
"Don't stress," he says. "Nobody's judging you. They're all just glad you're here."
I wish I could believe him. But I can feel the eyes on me, every single one of them weighing me up and down, and most deciding that I just don't belong at his side. The puck bunnies literally want to claw my eyes out right now.
His teammates don't look at us the same way, but they do look. Every time one of them passes by, they shoot Trent a look—sometimes approving, sometimes curious, but there's always a look.
I'm torn between running and sticking around to see what happens if I actually do start screaming. If I make it to the end of the night without vomiting from nerves, I'm awarding myself a gold star. And maybe a giant glass of wine.
After spending a few minutes in the kitchen while Trent inhales cookies at light speed and I pick at a finger sandwich, we drift from room to room, nibbling at more snacks and making small talk.
I try to keep up, but the volume is set to stadium at full capacity .
Every time someone talks to me, I have to guess at least half of what they're saying.
Like right now. Either the North Pole was burned down with a flamethrower, or Brock Anderson wishes he had a flamethrower. I'm not entirely sure.