Claimed by the Center (Toronto Thunder #1)

Lilah

I hate parties.

Okay, fine. Maybe hate is a strong word. I dislike parties. Intensely. I can think of about a hundred things I’d rather be doing than going to a party. Seriously. Number twenty-four is pass a kidney stone. Number sixty-three is get a pap smear. Number seventy-two is get stuck in a Port-A-Potty on the hottest day of summer.

It’s a very thorough list.

Because I dislike parties.

But I’m at one, because while I don’t like parties, I love my dad, and I know what tonight means to him. He’s the newly appointed head coach of the Toronto Thunder, one of the most storied professional hockey teams in the world. And tonight, on the cusp of the new season and the start of his new job, he’s throwing a very fancy team building soirée for players and staff. It’s a chance for everyone to get to know each other and blow off a little steam before the seriousness of the season takes over.

And seeing as I live with him, and the party is at our house, it makes sense for me to come, too. To support my dad. Because I know how nervous he is, and how much pressure he’s already feeling. It’s been a long time since Toronto has won a championship. The entire city is now looking to former All-Star turned coach Shane Ferguson to lead the team to victory.

If anyone can do it, it’s him.

I slip down the sweeping staircase, the banister threaded with fairy lights, and make my way through the huge open concept kitchen and into the backyard. It’s the end of September, and the evenings are getting cooler, but thanks to several portable heaters spaced out around the sprawling patio, it’s comfortable. Lights on strings hang above, and rock music plays through the speakers. The lights reflect off of the heated pool, the water shimmering. Enormous terra cotta planters spew chrysanthemums in vibrant yellows, oranges and reds.

I step further onto the patio and wince slightly. It’s loud out here. Voices—mostly male—weave and tangle together into a deep cacophony, talking to be heard over the music. A makeshift bar has been set up near the French doors that lead into the house, strung with more lights. A few people linger there, sipping drinks and chatting.

They make it look so easy.

I scan the crowd for my dad and see him deep in conversation with the team’s general manager and a few other people I don’t know. When he looks over and sees me, he waves, and I can tell from the look on his face that he’s glad I’m here.

That makes one of us.

I would much rather be in my room studying, or playing video games, or watching Bob’s Burgers for the seventeenth time.

This is why I’m twenty years old and I’ve never had a boyfriend. I’ve never even been on a date.

Never been kissed.

It’s not that I don’t want that. I do. I’m actually pretty horny for a twenty-year-old virgin. But I’m also shy and quiet and not great at doing things outside of my comfort zone.

So, I’m here tonight, because I love my dad, and I know that I can’t spend my entire life living in my little shell. My best friend Sadie likes to joke that if I had my way, I’d live alone in a cabin in the woods and spend my days reading and gaming.

She’s not entirely wrong.

I glance around the large patio again, taking in the groups of people laughing and chatting, the small smattering of stars visible against the city’s light pollution, the scent of the propane from the tall heaters.

I slip my phone out of my back pocket and quickly text Sadie.

: Are you sure you can’t make it tonight?

Sadie spends a lot of time here. She and I have been best friends since grade five, when I moved to Toronto with my mom after my parents split. Now that my dad’s back, mom’s traveling the world with her boyfriend and I’m living here. Partly because I wasn’t ready to be on my own, and partly because my dad is a tad overprotective and couldn’t stomach the idea of me and Sadie getting a place together. He’d rather I live under his roof, where he can keep an eye on me.

Sadie: I’m sure. I promised my neighbour I’d babysit. Trust me, I’d much rather be at a party with hot hockey players than be elbow deep in Play-Doh with Peppa Pig on repeat.

: Okay. You’re a good egg, Sadie.

Sadie: I’d tell you to have fun for me, but…

: Ha ha.

With a sigh, I slip my phone back in my pocket and then rock awkwardly on my heels.

A drink. I’ll get a drink. That’s something people do at parties, right?

I square my shoulders and step up to the bar, tiki torches flickering on either side of it. The bartender sees me and smiles, tilting his head in my direction.

“Can I have a glass of wine, please?” I ask, and he frowns, shaking his head.

“Sorry, what?”

“Can I have a glass of wine?”

He cups his hand over his ear. “Come again?”

I feel my cheeks heating. I know I have a quiet voice. I’m soft spoken and when I have to speak in class, I often feel like I’m shouting.

“Can I please have a glass of wine?” I talk-yell. The bartender’s expression changes to one of understanding, and he nods.

He pours my drink, and I lean against the bar, eyes on my folded hands.

“Canapé?” offers a waiter in a white shirt and black dress pants. He extends a tray towards me covered in little toasts with smoked salmon and some kind of paté.

I shake my head. “No, thank you.”

“You sure?” His eyes slide up and down my body, and I fight the urge to cross my arms over my chest.

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?” he smirks, and I can’t tell if he’s flirting or making fun of me. My cheeks go hotter.

“Yes, I’m sure. I’m not hungry.”

His eyes travel up and down my body again, and this time I do cross my arms in front of my chest. My face feels like it’s on fire, but the rest of my body is cold. I don’t like his eyes on me.

The waiter sets his tray down on the bar and leans in closer. “Come on, don’t be so shy. I’m sure a beautiful girl like you is at least a little hungry.”

There’s a sliminess to his words that has me shifting my weight from foot to foot. I glance over at the bartender, but after setting my glass of wine down, he’s retreated to the other side of the bar, taking someone else’s order.

I reach out and grasp my wine glass, even though my stomach is all twisted up. I don’t like this attention. Not at all.

“I’m not hungry,” I say, adjusting my blue blouse, feeling fidgety.

“You’ll have to speak up, little mouse,” he says, and the predatory gleam in his eyes has me frozen to the spot. “Or no one will be able to hear you.”

I might be inexperienced, na?ve even, but I know what my gut’s telling me, and it’s that this guy is bad freaking news.