Chapter Ten
Remy
The team lunch at the Puck Drop didn’t sound so bad when Renee described it, but that’s because I haven’t been to a sports bar since college. I forgot how loud and sticky they can be.
In its defense, the Puck Drop is much nicer than the skeevy hole-in-the-wall I frequented in my younger, poorer days.
The menu is impressive. Instead of endless taps of Pbr and Miller Lite, the bar boasts a selection of craft-brew options, local liquors, a decent wine list, and limoncello that, according to the signs over the bar, is made in-house. It could be worse.
Unfortunately, the clientele is less upscale. The dining room is loud and chaotic, full of giant men yelling at each other as they get increasingly tipsy. I immediately feel outnumbered. Other than Renee, I’m the only woman at the table.
Not professionally. I can handle a room like this in my sleep. But socially? That’s a different equation, and right now, I’m the only variable that doesn’t fit.
Owen saved me a seat beside him. That shouldn’t matter.
It’s practical. Efficient. Exactly what I would have done in his position.
It still lands strangely. I slip into the chair next to him, and he gives me a curt nod.
Brief. Controlled. Like he’s already decided how much of himself he’s willing to give me today.
There are empty spaces to my right, though the empty appetizer plates and the water glasses make it clear that someone’s staked their claim already.
“Am I late?” I ask Owen. I sound like I’m whispering, but that’s only because all the volume in the room is so high.
He shakes his head. “No, I just got here.”
Three guys return from the bar to reclaim their seats. Adler is part of the group, and the moment he sees me, he says something to one of his friends. Ugh, I bet he’s going to switch seats. Because nothing about this situation is going to stay simple.
“Hey, Remy!” Sure enough, Adler drops into the seat next to me. I don’t have to look to know Owen noticed. “You don’t have a drink. Do you want one? Dante’s paying, and the limoncello’s amazing.”
I’m not a huge fan of Adler’s attention, but he hasn’t actually done anything, and if I’m going to be spending all this time with Owen, I should at least try to get along with his teammates.
“Sure,” I say. Not my smartest move. I’m supposed to be managing Owen, not matching the room, but one drink won’t tip the balance. Probably. Maybe with a drink or two in me, I won’t feel so overwhelmed by all the shouting.
Adler immediately turns to flag down a server. “Jean? Hey, Jean! We need a limoncello for the lady!” He points down at the top of my head. “Oh, and a cannoli! You like cannolis? They’re really good here.”
“I’m not sure I’ve ever had one.”
“So it’ll be your first time?” Adler interlaces his fingers under his chin and gives me a smile that reminds me of that scene in The Grinch where he gets a wonderful, awful idea. “Too bad. You’ve been missing out. Isn’t that right, Owen?”
Owen scowls into his water glass. “They’re good cannolis,” he agrees, in the most sullen tone possible.
I can’t get a read on the dynamic here. Adler’s flirting with me, but he doesn’t seem to be making much of an effort. If anything, he’s paying as much attention to Owen as he is to me.
The server arrives with my drink and a huge tray of appetizers. Among the baskets of mozzarella sticks, stuffed mushrooms, and loaded focaccia bites is a single pristine cannoli. The server places it in front of me, along with a flute of sparkling limoncello.
I contemplate the dessert. It’s beautiful, but I can tell that between the powdered sugar, the pastry shell, and the filling, there is no good way to eat it without making a mess. I take a sip of my limoncello. The taste is bright and fresh, not at all the too-sweet syrupy flavor I was expecting.
“Oh, my God.” I hold the drink up to the light. “That’s amazing.”
“Right?” Adler beams.
I turn to Owen. “Have you tried this?”
He gives his head a single, firm shake. “I don’t drink.”
There’s that control again. Everything about him points to it.
“Oh.” I feel a little guilty about that. I’m supposed to be keeping an eye on him, and yet I’m the only one drinking. I set my glass down. “Sorry, I can just—”
“It’s okay,” Owen says. “I don’t care.” He pulls a face. “I’m not against drinking, I mean.”
“Listen!” Adler leans over me, cupping one hand to his ear. “Owen said an entire sentence! It’s a Christmas miracle.”
Adler’s sudden proximity wedges me into Owen’s side. For a moment, I’m squeezed between them.
“It’s nowhere near Christmas,” Owen observes.
“That’s what makes it so miraculous.” Adler pulls away, leaving me still pressed up against Owen. I inch away, but there isn’t a lot of room. My left thigh is still pressed against Owen’s right. Neither of us shifts. That’s the problem.
Conscious that he can feel my every move, I reach for the cannoli. I throw caution to the wind and take a big bite.
It’s delicious, even better than the limoncello.
The filling resembles sweet cream, but it’s rich and decadent and slightly salty.
I let my eyes roll back and emit an appreciative moan.
For a second, I forget where I am. Who I’m sitting next to.
Everything. There’s a hint of citrus in the mix, which blends beautifully with the savory-sweet balance. I close my eyes and chew.
I may have to revise my opinion of the bar, because this is amazing.
“What did I tell you?” Adler asks.
I exhale through my nose and brush the powdered sugar off of my lips. “I think that might be the best thing I’ve ever had in my mouth.”
Owen’s leg twitches against mine. Not subtle. Not accidental. Adler snorts, then tries to cover it with a cough.
When I open my eyes, Owen is staring at my mouth, and Adler is grinning at Owen.
That awareness hits a second too late, and now I can’t unfeel it.
Okay, yes, I hear how it sounds now, but it’s true.
The cannoli is delicious, and I refuse to let their juvenile humor derail my appreciation.
I put the rest of the cannoli on my plate, wipe my fingers on a cocktail napkin, and take another sip of my drink.
The lemon in the cannoli ties the flavor to the house-made drink.
I savor the rest, watching the chaos unfold around me.
Adler has moved on to a conversation with a blond guy, and Owen is listening to the guy on his other side, who, for some reason, is talking about hamsters.
I don’t have anything to add, and I’m increasingly uncomfortable about my prolonged contact with Owen.
Not because I don’t like it. Because I do.
When I agreed to be his PR chaperone, I didn’t take moments like this into account.
The blond guy Adler’s talking to catches my eye. The next time Adler gets up, the blond guy leans over his empty seat.
“Don’t worry,” he says. “Reinforcements coming.”
I raise an eyebrow. “What?”
“I texted my wife.” He brandishes his phone. “The WAGs will come to the rescue.”
I’ve met Tristan’s wife, and Knight’s… assistant, I guess?
But I don’t know anything about the wives of the married players on the team.
Perhaps it’s uncharitable to imagine them as a cluster of vapid Barbie-girl types, but when I remember the kinds of girls who hung around the jocks in college, there was an, ahem, aesthetic theme.
Also, not entirely inaccurate. Or so I tell myself.
A cheer precedes the arrival of the ladies before they come into view.
“Yo, Sofia!” Viktor bellows, loud enough to make my eardrums throb. “Tell Knight you want to name your baby after one of the good Pokémon. Lenyx and Adler called dibs on Pikachu, but that leaves Squirtle and Charizard. If you go with Charizard, Rizz is the obvious nickname, which is pretty cool.”
A lean, muscular woman with a dark bob comes up behind Viktor and rests her hands on his shoulders.
Comfortable. Possessive without being territorial.
Like she knows exactly where she stands.
“Darling, did you suggest that my best friend name her baby after a character from an inferior trading card game?”
Viktor rolls his head back so that the top of his head rests against the woman’s breasts. He pouts up at her. “Did you just call Pokémon inferior?”
“Yes, obviously. When Magic the Gathering exists?”
“Oooh.” Viktor’s eyes widen. “Why didn’t I think of that?”
The two of them start talking about some game I’ve never heard of. I sip the last of my drink and watch them talk, trying to place why the woman looks familiar. I don’t think we’ve met.
I tap Owen’s arm. “Is Viktor’s wife an actress?” I whisper.
“Who? Knova?” Owen shakes his head. “She’s a pilot.”
“Why does she look so familiar, then?”
Owen chuckles. “She’s Knight’s sister.”
“Knight? As in…” I find their teammate on the other side of the room, where he’s kissing a curvy, smiling woman. I assume that’s Sofia, and from what Viktor said, she must be pregnant, although she isn’t showing yet.
Owen bobs his head. “Yup. They’re twins.”
This isn’t just a team. It’s a network. A history I’m not part of.
“And Sofia is…”
“Knight’s wife. They were childhood sweethearts.”
“Aw.” I press one hand to my cheek. My skin is warm. With my pale complexion, the heat of the alcohol always goes right to my cheeks. “That’s so sweet.”
“Eh, it’s not a big deal.” Owen nods to another one of his teammates, who has also gotten up to greet his wife. “Cam married his childhood sweetheart, too.”
“Oh. That’s… nice.” The fourth woman in their group is familiar. I’ve seen her around the arena. She’s the team’s PT. I’m taken aback when she kisses Bowen in greeting.
“Violet’s married to Bowen,” Owen explains.
“Were they childhood sweethearts?” I ask. That limoncello was stronger than I thought. I’m already feeling a little lightheaded.
“No.” Owen tilts his head closer to mine. “But Violet is Lenyx’s sister.”