Chapter 4 Babe, You’re Catastrophizing
Babe, You’re Catastrophizing
Darcy
Oh God. How could I have been so stupid?
This singular thought cycles through my mind as I lie face down on my hotel bed.
I can’t believe he actually saw the message, then guessed who sent it. How could I be so unlucky?
And so, so stupid.
The only silver lining—and it’s a thin one—is that the DM itself is silly.
It’s sexual, but it’s over-the-top to the point of ridiculousness.
Thank God for that. Because the truth is actually worse—that I want Eric in other ways, too.
Not just in a vague, celebrity-crush kind of way.
But in the way you want someone to see the real you.
I want to be the person he saves a seat for. The one he texts when something stupid happens. The one he trusts with the stuff that matters. I want that more than I’ll ever admit aloud.
My phone buzzes suddenly, and I flinch. If it’s my boss calling to ask why I disappeared mid-conversation, I might have to feign food poisoning.
But it’s not him. It’s Zoe. Of course it is. “Hello?”
“Why is your voice muffled?” she demands. “And where are you? I saved you a seat.”
“I’m in our room,” I say, cradling a pillow over my head as I speak. “I’m never coming out. And I can never look him in the eye again.”
Zoe makes a noise of concern. “He’ll probably never even see the message. He has a social media person.”
“Oh, he saw it.”
“How do you know?”
“He looked at me,” I insist.
“People do that. Maybe you’re reading too much into a glance across the room. Maybe he saw you and thought—I need to remember to turn in my per diem forms.”
“No way,” I insist. “He blushed, Zoe. He’s a blusher, like me. I know what I saw.”
She’s quiet for a moment. “Okay. Well. That’s unfortunate. Why would he read his own DMs?”
“No idea.” I take a steadying breath. “Are you still at the dinner? What’s he doing? Anything strange? Is he gossiping?”
“Checking.” A beat of silence. “He just finished chatting with O’Connell about… something hockey. He mimed a slap shot. Now he’s carrying his dirty plate toward the bussing station, because he’s the kind of guy who doesn’t leave his dirty dishes for the staff to handle. And now…”
I hold my breath.
“He’s getting seconds at the buffet. Which I respect, honestly, because those empanadas were exceptional.”
My stomach growls. “I didn’t mean to miss dinner. Although I’m probably too embarrassed to chew. So I might choke, requiring someone to give me the hug of life, which would be the only way to make this day more humiliating.”
“Deep breaths,” Zoe says soothingly. “Hmm. Now he’s leaving the dining room with his plate. But without gossiping. Darcy, it’s going to be okay. Come down to the pool and have a drink with me and Chase. Everything is fine.”
“You don’t know that.” I shiver. “The look he gave me? It was intense. And even if I’m wrong, he’ll still see the message eventually. His publicist might flag it. I’m going to lose my job! And even if I don’t, I’ll probably have to quit.”
Zoe sighs. “Stop it.”
“This is bad,” I say with a shiver. “If I quit now, I won’t be able to afford my tuition this summer.”
“Nobody’s quitting,” Zoe insists. “Babe, you’re catastrophizing. Tomorrow this won’t seem like such a big deal.”
“Are you kidding? My dignity has already packed its bags and caught a cab to the airport. Please don’t tell Chase about this.” Her boyfriend lives in the same building as Eric and DeLuca.
“I won’t. I swear.”
“This is worse than middle school.” I think about that for a second. “Okay, not quite. But it’s bad.”
“Darcy, should I come upstairs? Are you okay?”
I don’t want to ruin her evening, too. “I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.”
Her voice grows wary. “Call me if you need anything. I’ll be outside by the pool if you change your mind.”
As if.
We hang up, and I lie here on the bed, under the pillow, wondering if my boss would give me a decent recommendation. Probably not, though. I’m so screwed.
Then someone taps on the door, and I stop breathing. “Darcy?”
Oh God. It’s his voice.
“Hey. Can you open the door?”
I shove the pillow off my face and croak, “Why?” And I mean it in an existential way. Why did I screw up so badly? Why am I like this?
“Because I just want to talk to you for a second. Why’d you skip dinner?”
Hmm. He hasn’t mentioned the message. But it could be a trick.
“I’m a little tired,” I try. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
A pause. “Darcy, open the damn door. Let’s talk this out.”
Everything inside me sags.
“Besides,” he says through the door. “If you won’t talk to me, it’ll bother me. And I can’t carry that kind of negative energy into game seven.”
Oh shit. Everything rides on tomorrow’s game. If even 1 percent of Eric’s game day performance could be laid at my feet, I do not want to be responsible for causing a problem.
Damn it all.
I roll off the bed and march over to fling the door open.
And there he is, delectable as usual, even in swim trunks and a Legends polo shirt.
It’s infuriating. “You know what, Eric? I already know you’re a great captain.
You never let issues fester in the dressing room.
Talking it out is usually the right doctrine.
But not this time, okay? Have you heard that phrase—you can’t fix stupid? ”
He squints back at me, all six-foot-three worth of blond, hulking glory. “I’ve heard it.”
“Well, this is the kind of stupid you just can’t fix. So just leave me alone to wallow in my embarrassment. Don’t give it another thought. It’s better if we never discuss it at all.”
“That’s not true,” he says firmly. “And I think I can make you talk to me.”
“No way,” I insist.
He pulls a big hand from behind his back. And, damn it, that hand is holding a plate full of chicken, empanadas, and black bean salad. There’s also a wedge of cheesecake. “Delivery,” he says cheerily. “I even brought silverware and a linen napkin. Now, don’t you want to invite me in?”
My stomach growls, and I realize he’s done it again—figured out exactly the right thing to de-escalate a situation.
I look into his gray eyes and marvel at him for a second.
How does a person become Eric Tremaine? There must be some kind of wild alchemy responsible for his rare combination of competence and confidence.
His leadership style is basically like if a golden retriever got a PhD in emotional intelligence and decided to captain a hockey team.
He has this infuriating ability to be both ridiculously attractive and completely right about everything. It’s honestly rude.
I take the damn plate.
His grin is only a little cocky as he follows me into the room and shuts the door.
But now I’ve miscalculated, because Eric Tremaine is standing in my hotel room, his powerful body leaning casually against the furniture. My stomach does another backflip.
I hate everything.
Setting the plate down, I turn to him, resigned to my fate. “Look, I appreciate this gesture,” I start, avoiding those gorgeous eyes. “But I should be the one knocking on your door to apologize for being inappropriate. I’m very sorry. That message was…” I pause awkwardly. “Temporary insanity?”
His cocky smile widens. “Got it. Temporary insanity. So none of it was true, and you actually hate my new tux?”
“No!” My mouth flops open, and then I clamp it shut again. “That’s not…”
He grins.
I let out a growl of outrage. “Now you’re teasing me? Really?”
“Too soon?” he asks with a wide smile.
“Definitely,” I hiss. “We’re never joking about this. Or mentioning it to anyone. Ever.” God. If Mr. Sharp thinks I’m spending my time sexting his players, I’ll lose my job.
His expression softens. “Aw, Darcy. Don’t take it so hard. I’ve forgotten about it already, okay? We’ve got bigger problems to solve.”
“I know,” I say quickly, my shoulders relaxing a fraction. “Like winning game seven.” This is familiar territory. I’m good at my job, and I’m invested in the team’s success, like a good little admin.
“There you go,” he says. “We obviously need to focus on the greater goal. And just think—if we advance to the final round, we’re headed to Colorado.”
“Yes, sir,” I say breathily.
He freezes. Then he rubs a hand over his face. “And you realize—if we’re in Colorado, we won’t even have to go to that stupid wedding shower. What the hell is a dance-off? I’d rather die.”
I blink. “Wait,” I say slowly. “Are you talking about the Fletcher-Randolph wedding?”
“Of course.” He shrugs his big shoulders. “Why do you think I bothered to fit a new tux during the playoffs? I have to go to the wedding, too. How do you know Maribel?”
I drag oxygen into my lungs. “The, uh, bride? We’ve never met. I just…” I shake off my surprise. “I’m related to the groom.”
“Oh? How?”
“He’s, um, my brother.”
It’s Eric’s turn to blink. “Wait, what? I heard Theo has a twin sister. That’s you?”
Slowly, I shake my head. “I’m the other sister, the one nobody mentions. My family is, um, messy.”
His expression darkens. “So many of them are, I guess.”
“Right?” I let out a nervous laugh. “And weddings only make things weirder.”
He shoves his hands in his pockets. “Isn’t that the truth.”
“So, how do you know Maribel?”
“She’s an old family friend. She came to the game last night, actually. I gave her and Theo my comp tickets.”
I can’t help it. My mouth falls open. “My brother came to our game in New York? I didn’t even know he liked hockey.”
“Well, yeah.” Eric rubs the back of his neck, looking suddenly uncomfortable. “No text from your bro when he’s in town, huh?”
I feel myself redden, because our family is just the weirdest. “He probably forgot he has my number. We didn’t grow up together.” That’s an understatement.
“Oh.” He looks befuddled, and I don’t blame him. “Didn’t mean to bring up a sore subject.”
“You didn’t, I promise. You know what is a sore subject, though? A dance competition at a wedding shower.”
He grins. “I know, right? I’m going to have to give Maribel a hard time about that.”
“See that you do. And please win game seven tomorrow. There’s a lot riding on it. Career goals. Sponsorships. And the opportunity to skip a party where everyone is expected to perform onstage.”
“Message received.” He gives me a conspiratorial smile, and I feel my heart lift. And just for a second, everything is fine. Everything is back to normal.
But then I hold his gaze a little too long, because I’m too tired to exercise self-control. And he’s just so pretty. Suddenly, I’m all too aware that we’re standing a few feet away from each other and from a hotel bed.
He must be psychic, too, because he quickly clears his throat and points at the plate he brought me. “I’d better go so you can eat that.”
“Right,” I say hastily. “Yes, Captain.”
His eyes flare, but I’m not sure why. Maybe because he’s realized that I don’t have full control of my impulses, and he’d better flee before I embarrass us both. Again.
He heads for the door, but then pauses with his hand on the knob and turns to look at me again. “Look, I’ll make a deal with you. If I can’t figure out how to win that game tomorrow, and we find ourselves at the same damn party next weekend, we’ll form a pact of mutual self-destruction.”
I only hesitate for a second. “You mean—the dance-off?”
He nods. “We’ll brave it together. As partners.”
“You’re on,” I chuckle. “Now go win game seven for the people of New York.”
With one more panty-melting smile, he turns and leaves.