Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Parker
While Bowen took his game-day nap, I handled business. I switched the security team to my employ, ensuring that the people tasked with my protection were loyal to me and not just another detail in my father’s vast network. The act of taking control grounded me, but it also reminded me how precarious my situation was.
I updated my résumé, but my job search would have to wait until the SEC completed its investigation into Brevos Capital. The media attention needed to die down before I could distance myself from the stigma attached to the Brevos name.
In the meantime, I could increase my volunteer hours at the cat shelter, but that felt like a Band-Aid on a gaping wound. As much as I adored those cats, I needed something more—a sense of purpose, a way to contribute beyond hiding in the shadows. The thought of sitting in the apartment all day reading, diving into the latest release by Whitney, was appealing. But it felt too much like a retreat. I couldn’t afford to withdraw into the escape of fiction, not when my real life was such a mess.
I was still lost in thought when Bowen emerged from the bedroom, his duffel bag slung over his shoulder, his expression sharp and focused. I admired how he always looked so composed, so in control, even under pressure. He stopped in front of me, his eyes searching mine. “You okay?”
I forced a smile, trying to mask the turmoil inside me. “I’m fine.” The words tasted bitter on my tongue. I wasn’t fine, not really, but I couldn’t burden him with my worries, not today. Not when he had a game to win. “Eric told me the media is camped outside, so be careful when you leave. They’ll try to stop your car. But our private security is on hand for crowd control, so hopefully they’ll keep the press back.”
Bowen’s jaw tightened and he mumbled something that sounded like a string of colorful curses under his breath. A pang of guilt twisted in my gut. This was my fault. I hated having brought this to his doorstep. I could only hope the man who valued his privacy didn’t grow tired of the media’s attention and—by extension—me.
My gaze dropped to the bag in his hand. “Leaving so soon?”
He nodded. “Going to warm up and have a pre-game dinner with the team. See you here afterwards?”
“Yeah, Eric will bring me home.” I stood, closed the distance between us, and wrapped my arms around his waist, pressing myself against the solid warmth of his body. “Good luck,” I whispered. On my tiptoes, I captured his lips, pouring all my unspoken fears and hopes into the kiss.
He responded with a deep, hungry moan, and his hands tightened on my hips. When he broke away, his eyes were dark with desire and frustration. “Don’t get me worked up before the game,” he murmured, his voice rough with barely restrained need.
“Sorry,” I said, though I flashed him a playful grin. I wasn’t sorry—not even a bit. As I watched him walk out the door, my heart thumped hard in my chest. I lo—really liked that man. More than I should, considering the chaos of my life. As the door clicked shut behind him, I mentally crossed my fingers that the team would win.
A knock sounded when it was time for me to leave. I hesitated, my hand hovering over the doorknob, and peered through the peephole. Eric’s familiar face filled my view, his broad shoulders almost blocking out the hallway behind him. Dressed casually in a Monroe jersey, he’d meld perfectly into the sea of fans. I opened the door, raising an eyebrow. “You’re really playing the part.”
He shrugged. “I need to blend in. That’s why you never spotted any of us.”
A chill ran down my spine. It was creepy to think I’d been watched so closely, and yet I hadn’t noticed a thing.
I slung my crossbody bag over my head. “Let’s go,” I said, steadier than I felt.
The ride to the arena was tense, the city blurring past the tinted windows of the black SUV as Eric navigated through the streets. There was no point in trying to lose the press; they could guess where we were headed. Still, the sight of them, swarming like vultures, made my stomach churn.
Eric escorted me inside, his large frame a protective barrier. The noise of the crowd was a dull roar, but my heart pounded louder in my ears. When we reached my aisle, Eric stopped at the top of the steps, his presence looming. I halted too, frowning up at him. “Aren’t you sitting with me?”
He shook his head. “I won’t intrude in your personal life. I can control the flow of traffic from here and intervene if anyone bothers you.”
“Well, okay. Enjoy the game.”
His expression scrunched in confusion. “I’ll be working.”
I chuckled. “Right. See you later.”
I made my way down the aisle, my palms growing damp as the distance between me and the WAGs closed with each step. My heart thumped in my chest, every beat a question. What would they say? What would they do? Would they accept me, or would they meet me with cold indifference?
When I reached my row, the WAGs stood and turned their backs to me. My stomach plummeted. Tears welled in my eyes, the sting of rejection sharp and bitter. Then I noticed the name on their jerseys.
They all wore Smith and the number one.
I stopped in my tracks, and my hands flew to my mouth to stifle a sob. Tears of a different kind filled my eyes and spilled down my cheeks. “You guys, I…” I croaked, the words strangled by the lump in my throat.
Everyone turned around and smiled at me. Emily leaned down and opened her arms. “We love you, Parker,” she said. It was a soothing balm to my frayed nerves.
I fell into her hug, overwhelmed by the kindness I hadn’t expected but desperately needed. “Thank you,” I whispered.
“Nothing has changed,” Hope added, her eyes gentle, filled with understanding. “You’re still Parker Smith to us.”
Whitney tapped me on the shoulder, and I broke away from Emily. “We support you, whatever you need.” Mr. Merriweather, also wearing a Smith jersey, grunted in agreement and rapped his cane on the concrete. Whitney grinned at me.
I sniffed and wiped my eyes. Whitney dug into her purse and handed me a tissue. “Thank you. My mascara is probably running.” I chuckled weakly as Whitney smiled kindly. I swiped my cheeks. I asked, “How did you get the jerseys so quickly?”
Emily and Hope exchanged a glance before pointing at each other, laughing. “Connections,” they said in unison. Emily handed me a jersey identical to theirs.
My laugh came out choked, somewhere between a sob and a gasp of relief. My heart felt so full it might burst. “I can’t tell you how much this means to me,” I said through the thick emotions. I pulled my Monroe jersey off and replaced it with Smith. It was a perfect fit, literally and figuratively.
I was still facing the WAGs, my back to the ice, when Emily gestured toward the rink. “Someone’s trying to get your attention,” she said, her tone teasing.
I turned, following her gaze, and found Bowen at the boards in front of the bench, his brow furrowed with concern. “Okay?” he mouthed.
A smile tugged at my lips, my heart fluttering. I blew him a kiss, and a warm flush spread through me as his face cleared. He waved, a small, reassuring gesture, before skating back to his drills, his focus returning to the warm-ups.
Hope leaned forward and spoke quietly in my ear. “I’ve seen you and Bowen on the news.” Her grimace told me everything I needed to know about her opinion on that. “Bowen told us you were coming tonight, but I was surprised. Isn’t the press hounding you?”
“They’re like bees on a honeycomb.” I tried to keep my tone light despite the irritation bubbling beneath the surface. “I can’t escape them.”
Her brows knit together in concern. “Then how did you get here?”
I waved a hand, attempting nonchalance. “I’ve got a bodyguard. He’s at the top of the stairs.” I glanced up the steps, expecting to see Eric standing watch, but he was nowhere in sight. Huh . Eric really was too good to be spotted unless he wanted to be. He was there, I was sure of it, blending into the crowd.
Hope squeezed my shoulder. “I’m glad to hear you aren’t on your own. I was worried about you.”
I placed my hand on hers, smiling gratefully. “Thanks.”
The lights in the arena dimmed, and the energy in the crowd shifted, the noise level rising as anticipation electrified the air. Colored spotlights danced across the audience, and the heavy bass of the Blazers’ theme music thrummed through the floor. The Jumbotron burst into the team’s opening video sequence, and the roar of the crowd grew deafening as the smoking red dragon’s head descended onto the ice.
Hudson shot out of the gaping maw, and Whitney yelled, “Woo-hoo!” The girlfriends’ shouts mingled with the thousands of others in the arena as, one by one, their boyfriends skated onto the ice.
And then Bowen appeared, a blur of speed and power as he zipped onto the ice. I jumped to my feet, my arms shooting in the air, caught up in the thrill.
After the preliminaries, the referee dropped the puck. The atmosphere in the arena was like a lightning storm, and I could feel the buzz in the air as the crowd roared with every save and near miss. The shared apprehension and enthusiasm of the WAGs was palpable. Hudson was a wall in the net, turning away shot after shot as Boston bombarded him with seventeen attempts in the first period alone. My heart was in my throat every time the puck got near our goal, but Hudson was unstoppable, and we cheered louder with each save.
The tension was high at the beginning of the second period. The Blazers finally broke through when Beck deftly backhanded a shot past Boston’s goalie. The arena erupted, and Hope’s cheers mingled with the crowd’s roar. I joined in, clapping and shouting, as Beck’s goal put us on the board.
The third period was a nail-biter. Boston kept up the pressure, and every close call had us on the edge of our seats. Chase tripped a Boston player and Emily gasped. No penalty was called, and the Boston fans around us were furious, booing loudly.
With perfect timing, Bowen caught a deflected puck and sent it into the net. The lamp lit. The crowd exploded, and I leaped to my feet, cheering until I was hoarse. The Blazers were ahead 2-0. The thrill was overwhelming; I felt like my heart might burst with pride and happiness.
Boston fought back, and with less than seven minutes remaining, they finally got on the board. A shot slipped past Hudson. The Boston fans roared, and I felt a pang of anxiety as the clock ticked down.
The final minutes were a blur of anxious energy. The Blazers switched to a defensive strategy, and every second felt like an eternity. The WAGs and I were on our feet, shouting encouragement, willing the team to hold on. And they did. The final horn sounded, and the Blazers won 2-1, taking the lead in the series 3-2.
The arena was a sea of jubilation; the noise was deafening. I hugged and high-fived as many WAGs as I could reach, my heart light.
Bowen had scored the game-winning goal. We wouldn’t be going to Scrimmage’s, but I couldn’t wait to celebrate at his apartment.
I had plans for us.