Chapter 7
BENNETT
If you don’t screw up, we’ll both be free.
Tori’s voice echoes in my head, haunting me the rest of the afternoon. I try to drown it out. Her stinging words. The bitter flash in her eyes.
Playing Call of Duty with Callum doesn’t work. Then I grind through a punishing weight set, the music cranked up.
Nope.
Nothing works.
I can’t unhear the desperation. Can’t unsee the panic, the crack in her armor.
She was genuinely worried, at least for a minute.
I hate that I did that.
I also hate that she has to worry about me at all.
I’m not a fucking child.
I thought we’d made progress — maybe even called some kind of truce.
Clearly not.
She still sees me as someone to manage. A liability. A headline waiting to happen.
I should be pissed about it. And I am.
But also…a tiny bit bummed.
A stupid part of me wants Tori to see me as more than an unhinged hockey player with one too many concussions, itching for a fight. Someone who doesn’t need a babysitter every fucking hour of the day.
And I definitely don’t need her crushing disappointment added to the pile Prince, Coach, and the league dumped on me.
It’s heavy being everyone’s problem.
After the fight at the beach, the last thing I want to do tonight is go to this boring gala. Especially with her.
I’m half-tempted to slip Knox and Bishop a couple hundred bucks and go off the grid for the next 24.
Doubt they’d go for it though and then I’d be in double the shit I’m in now.
Besides, it’s not like I have anywhere better to be. The party scene hasn’t exactly been bumping since we moved down to Florida. And the guys who used to blow me up on Friday night have gone pretty quiet since my suspension.
So instead, I shower and suit up for the evening. Nerves zing through me as I struggle to button my shirt, my fingers clumsy.
Damn. This is worse than game day. I never have this much trouble with pads.
Leaning close to the mirror, I adjust my tie and fix the knot. A spritz of cologne and a quick comb through my hair, and I’m as ready as I’m gonna be.
Three hours in a tux next to Tori Prince stone-cold sober, schmoozing donors and pretending to give a damn.
What’s not to love.
I collapse on the sofa and wait for the warden to show.
Two minutes to six, there’s a polite knock on the door.
Tap, tap, tap.
Nothing like the pounding the other times she’s showed up here.
Inhaling, I force myself from the couch and shrug into my jacket. I hesitate for a second, mentally adjusting my attitude. Both of us need tonight to go very, very right.
For the team. And for ourselves.
I repeat my game day mantra: You’ve got this, Steele. You’re the best out there. No one’s better.
Damn straight.
Squaring my shoulders, I open the door ready for battle. I’ll have a quick comeback to whatever snide remark the scowling Ice Queen throws my way.
Instead, I freeze like some dumb sap in a fucking rom-com. Heart pounding, my mind goes totally blank.
All I can do is stare at Tori.
She’s stunning in a floor-length satin jade green dress that clings to her curves.
Dark hair falls in waves over her bare shoulders, and an emerald necklace that probably cost more than my first contract bonus accentuates the long, delicate lines of her neck.
She’s giving old Hollywood glamour meets socialite and I can’t stop staring at her deep scarlet lips.
I’m in trouble.
“Wow.” I swallow hard over the lump in my throat, barely choking out the word.
She eyes me up and down through long, dark lashes. “You clean up pretty good yourself, Steele. Ready to go?”
I nod, shutting the condo door behind me.
“Knox is waiting downstairs. He’s our driver tonight.”
“A perk of having multiple babysitters, I guess.”
The elevator doors slide open and I hit the button for the lobby. I’m acutely aware of her body, only inches away from mine in the small space. I shove my hand in my pocket and try to distract myself from the tingling in my fingers, itching to reach out and touch her.
Bad idea.
Especially after our fight on the beach this afternoon.
No, I’ll stick to the script and play my role tonight. She’s right. The sooner all this is behind us, the better.
With a dull thud, the elevator stops and we head out to the parking lot.
The sun’s already gone for the day, a half moon shining in the denim blue sky.
Knox sits behind the wheel of a black Cadillac Escalade and Bishop hops out, opening the door for Tori.
He offers his hand and helps her into the car, and I stand there, an overdressed, useless accessory.
I’m not accustomed to having chaperones on my dates.
Date.
No.
This is a job, not a date, Steele. Get that straight in your head right the fuck now.
I climb into the SUV behind Tori, and Bishop shuts the door behind me. We take off through town, passing shops and crowded restaurants. Soft rock plays on the radio and I drum my fingers to the beat to fill the quiet.
Tori clears her throat and glances over.
“My father sent me the guest list. Several important donors will be at the gala.” She rubs her left hand with her right, tense. “You know the deal — be on your best behavior. Tonight matters.”
Annoyance flares in my chest.
“Got it, Boss. You don’t have to keep hammering that point home.”
A flash of hurt flickers across her face but disappears quickly.
“Good. Stay tight. Stick to the script.”
“How about I just let you do all the talking? I’ll sit on the bench, like usual.”
“Bennett…” Her voice softens, along with her gaze. “I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.” I hold eye contact for a beat longer than necessary, then look away.
I’d punch that guy out to protect Harbor all over again and she knows it.
But I’m not here to rehash the past. I’m here to do my damn job and move on.
We sit in chilly silence the rest of the drive, finally pulling into the Yacht Club.
All glass and golden glow, the building rises from the waterfront.
Knox joins the valet line of expensive cars and five minutes later, we’re climbing out of the Escalade.
An attendant motions us into the lobby and we take our place in line for the obligatory press photos.
Chandeliers toss light onto the glittering crowd, people born knowing which fork to use.
Tori shifts from foot to foot and I button and straighten my jacket, feeling awkward.
Then the couple from the meet-and-greet, the Rayburns, spot us and make a beeline across the room.
“Bennett! So glad you could make it!” Mr. Rayburn pumps my hand up and down and Mrs. Rayburn beams at me.
“Thrilled to be here, sir. Great seeing you two again. Where’s the VIP?” I glance around for their daughter, fairly certain she’s not in attendance at this event.
Mr. Rayburn chuckles, shaking his head. “Afraid we left Saylor at home tonight with a sitter. It’s date night.” He loops his arm around Mrs. Rayburn and she leans against him. “We’ll tell her you said hello, though.”
“Super.”
Another couple waves at the Rayburns from a pop-up bar across the room, and Mr. Rayburn signals to them.
“I need to catch up with a colleague. But we’re at your table. We’ll chat more at dinner.”
“Perfect.” I nod and smile and then they’re gone.
Dropping my voice low, I lean in close to Tori.
“See? That’s an example of someone who actually needs a babysitter.”
“Hey — none of this was my idea,” she hisses, her volume matching mine. “I should be in New York right now, running the hedge fund. But here I am—” she gestures at the room filled with people — “playing hockey socialite-slash-nanny. Trust me, Bennett. This isn’t my idea of a good time.”
My stomach twists, even though nothing she’s saying is news to me.
She’s right. She didn’t ask for this either. She’s got her own life, career, her own pile of expectations.
And she’s here anyway.
Why?
“Mine either, Sunshine.”
“Right. We’re on the same page then. So let’s work together on this. You charm people like you always do, I’ll talk business with the donors, then we can get the hell out of here.”
I cut my eyes at her, the knot in my gut loosening. “You think I’m charming?”
“Sure. With the right crowd, you’re amazing.”
Ouch.
“And who, exactly, is that crowd?”
“You know — fans, families, children. And I’m sure the puck bunnies love you.”
“They do.”
“How’d I guess?” She arches a dark brow, and I wonder why she hates me so much.
“Next!” The photographer ushers us over and we instinctively truce, striking the pose expected of us.
I loop my arm around Tori, hand hovering on her lower back. The scent of roses drifts from her hair and tickles my nostrils. Her body’s warm against mine, all curves and edges, and the room before me blurs.
“Nice. Closer. Half an inch.” The photographer motions his hands together and Tori leans into me, her body relaxing slightly.
Flash. Flash. Flash.
“Beautiful.”
He lowers his camera and the moment’s over. Tori steps away and I drop my hand, along with my smile.
“Am I allowed to have a drink? Or is that against the rules?”
“Yes, you can have a drink.” Her eyes cut to the bar. “And I’d love one too.”
Together, we make our way through the crowd toward the bar with the shortest line. The noise level rises as more people arrive, a band playing — what else — yacht rock in the corner. Tori’s eyes dart around the room, like she’s scoping for a target.
“You okay?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“Besides the fact you’re clocking every person who walks through the door? Or in general?”
“Haha. Very funny.”
She rubs her left hand again, clearly agitated. That’s the third time she’s done that tonight.
The couple in front of us grabs their drinks and steps aside.
“What are you having?” I ask, glancing back at her.
No response.
Her face is pale, her pulse a quick flutter in her neck. Two bright spots stain her cheeks and her breathing’s shallow.
This is more than nerves before a big game.
“Tori? You okay? What do you want?”
“Tequila. On the rocks. Make it a double.”
“Oh-kay.”
I took her for more of a wine drinker, but I go ahead and order the drinks. Dropping a tip in the jar, I hand Tori her drink.
“Thanks.” She grabs the glass from me and downs half the clear liquid in two seconds flat.
Wow. That’s not nothing.
I want to ask, but don’t know how. Not without her shutting me down completely.
“Easy there, hotshot. You’re gonna be shit-faced if you keep up that pace.”
“It’s fine. Everything’s fine.”
She takes another long slug of the drink, her eyes darting around the lobby.
“Let’s check out our table.” She grips my elbow and drags me into the main dining room, a huge space with a soaring vaulted ceiling and windows facing the ocean.
The tables are draped in white linens with oversized pink-and-white rose centerpieces.
Candles flicker, the golden light bouncing off the wood plank walls.
We’re nearly across the room when we’re stopped by a woman in a glittery black sequin gown, her dark hair swept back from her face. She’s attractive in that very high-maintenance way, and I instantly file her under donor. Or at least someone with a shit ton of money.
“Victoria — what a surprise. It’s been too long.” The woman leans in, lightly grasping Tori’s arms and kissing her on each cheek. Tori’s shoulders stiffen, her posture ramrod straight.
“Hello, Eleanor.” Her voice is cool and distant.
“When I saw Prince on the guest list, I assumed your father would be here.” The woman half-smiles, her plump lips pinching.
“He had a meeting tonight.” Tori offers no further explanation.
“Shame. I’d hoped to run into him.”
The two women study each other for a moment before Eleanor turns to me.
“You look so familiar.” She waves her finger through the air and Tori blanches, her grip tight on my arm.
“I play for the Crushers.”
“Of course you do.” Her gaze flicks from my face down my body, then back again, taking all of me in. “I know exactly who you are now…”
“Darling…” A man strolls up, tapping Eleanor’s elbow. He’s in a tux, with salt-and-pepper hair, a well-maintained beard, and designer glasses. “Hello, Tori.”
He leans over and kisses Tori on the cheek, just one this time.
Tori seems to thaw a tiny bit. “Hello, Trent. Nice to see you.”
“Likewise. And this is…” He tips his head at me.
“Bennett. Bennett Steele. A winger for the Coastal Crushers.”
His brow creases as he studies me, like I’m a science exhibit or something.
“Good to see you.” He extends his hand and I shake it, wondering who the hell these people are and why Tori’s gone polar. Even icier than normal.
“Well, it’s good to see you out, Victoria. After everything that…” Eleanor leans in closer to Tori, her smile never faltering. “Didn’t happen.”
Her gaze slides to Tori’s left hand. Tori’s knuckles go white around her drink, ice clinking against the glass.
I don’t know what just happened. But I know a cheap shot when I see one.
I shift slightly, closing the gap between me and Tori.
“Bennett! Sorry to interrupt—” Mr. Rayburn sidles up with the guy from the bar and launches into hockey talk. I’m torn between engaging with the season ticket holder or stepping between the women.
Not that I have much choice, with Rayburn already asking about the season.
Hockey talk it is.