In the Crease (Connecticut Commodores #3)

1. Nica

1

NICA

My husband just got married.

I sat in the back of a limo in a long line of luxury cars while it happened. Just when I couldn’t check my phone again without it being a tic, we started to roll forward. The driver turned onto a lane that wound up to the biggest freaking house I’d ever seen in my life. The double red doors stood open. White wreaths and roses welcomed guests inside. Butlers and security guards stood at the ready. Once I showed my invitation, they offered me canapes and pointed to the backyard.

I smoothed the black cocktail dress over my chest. An online boutique gifted it to me when they learned I had a coveted invitation to this event. But fancy clothes didn’t stop the screaming in my head that said I had no freaking business at a place this swanky. Out of my league didn’t begin to cover it.

Not only that, I was a creep. A “stalker.” I was her . As in, “Can you believe they invited her to this wedding?”

For a girl whose momma taught her to lay low, blend in, and take just enough to get by, I felt way too out of place.

A waiter walked up with champagne, and I had to resist the urge to swipe two off the tray. Sucking down the delicious bubbly, I flowed with the river of people heading to the party at the massive tent on the rolling lawn. Once we were out on the patio, I stepped aside and let others hurry along the path.

Is that a little rink? I did a double-take. Sure enough, a pair of ice dancers performed for onlookers. The tuxedoed men and gown-clad women applauded while the band played. I boggled at the opulence, even though it couldn’t have been more appropriate for a hockey goalie’s wedding.

But I wasn’t there to gawk. I was there to work. To be her. Sick of the schtick as I was , it was this or go back to waiting tables in a casino. And that was not an option. Not now that I knew what working for myself felt like.

I whipped out my phone and panned a slow video of the grounds. My voice became gravelly with a lift at the end of each sentence. It was my trademark tone to make me sound cool but committed to what I was saying.

“It’s wedding day, besties. You’ll have to wait for photos of my Quentin in his tux. Keep the drool in your mouths, babes. It’ll be well worth it when I finally show you. For now, dig this party. So nice of my new mom to host us, don’t you think?”

I flipped the camera to me and winked. As soon as it posted, notifications flowed in. Meanwhile, I hurried to set up a video I’d taken before leaving my apartment. The gorgeous peach metallic suitcase sat on my bed with a pair of panties and a toothbrush inside. In the video, I open the case to show its contents and say, “Leaving for honeymoon, anyone? Quentin’s season starts Monday, but I bet you’re ready to travel! With Elsewhere’s latest colors, you’ll stay in style no matter where you go. Don’t forget your Bellini panties, of course!” I scheduled that post to drop in half an hour to optimize the algorithm.

Once that was done, I looked up to find I’d emptied the champagne and hadn’t gotten any closer to the actual party. Guests and staff strolled by without a sideways glance. I slipped a little bit further off the path and opened my phone again, this time for a call.

“I thought you were at the wedding.”

“I am,” I said softly into the speaker. “It’s… fancy.”

Vinny laughed. “No shit it’s fancy. It’s in the Hamptons.” He affected a snooty accent that made me smile at last.

“Well, exactly. I feel so out of place. Like, if I’m not in a waiter’s uniform, holding a tray of prosciutto-wrapped figs and sneaking rolls into my purse, what am I even doing?”

“Aw, sis. You’re not Mom, and you know it. Chin up. You’ve made a name for yourself. Walk around that party like the loudmouth influencer you’ve shown the world you can be. They ain’t gotta know you come from a trailer park in the woods of Connecticut. As far as they’re concerned, you go to the Hamptons every weekend.”

I took a deep breath and nodded. “Thanks, Vin. I got this.”

“You got this.”

I said goodbye and dropped the phone in my bag. After rolling my shoulders and stealing another flute from a passing tray, I made myself go to the tent.

People tossed glances when I stepped into the receiving line, but just as quickly, most turned away again. Better than the lip curls of disgust that a few of them flashed to say they knew exactly who I was. At least there weren’t many of those so far. It didn’t surprise me that most of Quentin Paris’s friends and family didn’t recognize Mrs. Quentin Paris .

I sipped the champagne and shuffled forward. Quentin and Audrey’s ceremony had been intimate, but the reception was a VIP soiree. Everyone who hadn’t been there for the “I dos” wanted to congratulate the family. I shook hands with the parents of the bride and groom, Quentin’s brother and sister-in-law, and finally got to the happy couple. Audrey looked radiant in her wedding gown. She smiled to see me.

“Nica. Thank you for coming.”

I clasped her hands. “Congrats, girl.”

She breathed a laugh. “I’m ready to hide from so many people already.”

“You got this.” I grinned to echo the phrase again. Audrey was the coolest. The fact that she invited me to her wedding blew my mind. I still marveled that she let me anywhere near her or her man. My social media handle had started as a goof but became my whole career. I never imagined so many people would want to watch me fangirl over Quentin Paris, the smoking hot hockey goalie. Almost from the start, though, my online persona had become a massive hit.

As the Connecticut Commodores’ head of PR and Quentin’s bride, Audrey had decided that the best way to handle me was for us to work together. Once she seemed sure I wasn’t going to single white female her and steal her life, that is. She respected branding and image and had no desire to put her relationship in the spotlight. At the start of last season, Audrey began sending me press passes to team events with strict orders to stay in my lane.

Ever since then, publicly lusting over her boyfriend felt weirder and weirder. I’d shifted a lot of my focus to the team as a whole, even though Paris posts always got the biggest reaction. She clearly understood, but it made me feel like a creep sometimes.

Still, having her as a connection gave me content gold. I was over the moon last week when she sent me front-row, center-ice tickets to the first preseason game of the year—only to find out about the surprise wedding that took place before the game. Ethan Rivera marrying his bride on the ice was fairytale fodder that kept my fans talking for days.

But to get an invite to her wedding? That had put my stomach on the floor.

I gave her another squeeze and stepped face-to-face with my “husband.” His blue eyes sparked with a bit of mischief. “Bonsoir, Mademoiselle,” he murmured as he kissed my hand.

Damn. There’s a reason I’ve gotten thousands of people to swoon with me over this guy. I forced a cool smile. “Congratulations, Mr. Paris.”

“Oh, but you must call me Quinn. I feel like we have known of each other too long for formalities, don’t you?”

“Well, if you insist—Quinn.”

“Lovely. Enjoy the party, Nica.” He winked, and I nearly fainted.

I hurried to a corner and pulled out my phone to go live for a short blurb. “Oh-em-gee, besties. Quentin is in top form tonight. Y’all aren’t gonna believe my stories when I tell them!” I fanned my face and cut the feed. Even though he’d just told me to call him Quinn, I always called him Quentin online.

You’ve been at this whole schtick for too long. He’s freaking married now. How can I stop being a rabid fangirl and keep supporting myself? Can I be more than that and be worth anything?

I wasn’t sure if I could. But I was sure that there could be more champagne. I located my table on the seating chart and took a detour to the bar.

In my periphery, I saw a gray blazer approaching the empty spot I was aiming for. We arrived at the same time and bumped arms. Immediately, he stepped back, gesturing me forward. “Sorry about that.”

“My fault. You can go first.” The urge to slide through this party unnoticed kept my gaze lowered. I was more than fine to let him order and move on.

“I cannot, actually, because I have manners. Ladies first.”

His soft laugh drew my eyes upward against my will. Holy crap. Don’t stare, but damn. That jawline and those green eyes demanded a lot of self-discipline on my part. He wore an amused smile that dimmed to a little curve of his lips as he studied me. But he didn’t frown. He just nodded toward the bar.

I fumbled out a champagne order. The bartender nodded and looked at the guy. “And you, buddy?”

“Uh, you can take care of her first.”

“I’ve got her. What do you need?”

He didn’t answer for long enough that I looked back at him. He glanced down at me, jaw sliding side to side, and then blew out a breath. “One throw me down and fuck me, a cherry popper, a blow job, and two blue balls, please. Oh, and a beer. I don’t care what kind.”

The bartender stared at him. So did I. Then, we both burst out laughing. “What’d you do, man? Lose a bet?” the bartender asked.

“Bingo,” he muttered. Bless him, his ears had turned bright red.

“Five ridiculous drinks coming up. Let me get you the beer and champagne first.”

Two glasses appeared on the bar in under a minute. We reached for them. Another giggle escaped me, and he heaved another sigh.

“Well, um, cheers. Enjoy all your sex drinks.”

Those green eyes hit me again. This time, his lips were pressed into a line. “I’d swear they weren’t for me, but the impression has already been made, hasn’t it?”

Do not flirt at this party. That is the worst idea in the world, no matter how cute he is. “It was a memorable one. I’ll give you that.” I clinked my glass to his. “Have fun.”

It took a lot not to turn around and see if he was watching me while I found my seat. But as soon as I sat down, I was back in work mode. Unsurprisingly, I was at a table of journalists. Only a few of us had been granted access with very strict contracts about what we could and could not reveal and photograph during and after the event. They talked stories and players over dinner. I gave my usual “freelancer” response when they asked who I worked for. And, as usual, they largely ignored me.

Who cares if no one talks to you? Bruce said this would kick some life into my platform. Maybe I should’ve brought him as my plus one…

I winced and smacked the back of my left hand with my right under the table . You don’t need a toxic jerk, no matter how lonely or overwhelmed you might be. Besides, you have a meeting with him next week.

The bride and groom cut the cake, and dancing began. I watched my “husband” absolutely own the floor. The way he held Audrey and moved her with effortless confidence. The way he and his brother laughed together even while they danced with their wives. I wasn’t the only one appreciating the scene. Everyone seemed delighted by the party’s energy.

It was great, no doubt. But it also made me feel kind of… empty.

I wasn’t jealous of Audrey at all . Quinn was a fox, sure. My celebrity crush on him had started the page, but by now my whole focus was on algorithms and sponsorships. He was my content, not my obsession. No matter what anyone thought.

The emptiness came from feeling so out of my element here. So on the outside of this situation. Not only because of the rich-as-hell vibe. Because this was family. This was fun, frivolous, and free. And I didn’t have time for that stuff.

I didn’t dance. I drank another champagne. I took all the B-roll footage I could without capturing anyone’s face. When I’d sat politely and collected enough content, I excused myself. As soon as I stood up, the booze hit me hard.

Damn, champagne was a sneaky fucker. It went down like water and then hit you like a frying pan to the head.

I weaved my way through the tables to the edge of the tent and looked around. The cute guy was leaning against the bar, watching the dance floor. He must’ve sensed my gaze because he looked over. I wiggled my fingers, and he lifted his glass my way.

Even with the alcohol in my system, I didn’t have the guts to go talk to him again. Instead, I stepped out into the grass. My heels wobbled, so I kicked my shoes off and held them in my hand. The late September night on Long Island was cool but refreshing. A path cut through the grass, leading me away from the party. I followed it all the way to the beach and nearly fell down the wooden steps to the sand. As I steadied my feet, the shushing waves and salty air hit my senses.

“Oh, wow,” I breathed, dropping my shoes and hopping down the steps. A fingernail moon hung in the sky. It was so peaceful. So easy to just be me for a second without all the hashtags and hustle.

Tipsy tears pricked my eyes. I sucked in a wobbly breath and wished on the moon. “I’m not asking for a fairytale. Just that someday, maybe, things could be a little… sweeter.”

I pressed the heels of my hands into my eyes and groaned. My head spun with how very mid even my wishes could be. With a huff, I dropped my hands. But my champagne brain kept spinning and spinning…

Just in time, I ran to the nearest sand dune and puked. Champagne, wedding cake, and all my sappy hopes were lost to the dark.