7. Nica
7
NICA
What is this guy’s story? He looks like he should be building websites, not playing pro hockey. How would I have even guessed he was an athlete that night?
“… will stand in for Quentin with every ounce of dedication and talent that I have. I assure you, this season will…”
I listened to Ryan Molloy damn near whisper his way through a statement from the back corner of the press room. Those black-framed glasses slipped down his nose more than once, making me wonder just how hard he was sweating under all this attention. But every time, he pushed them back up and soldiered on.
It reminded me of how he played hockey. Steady, reliable, and safe.
But it was the opposite of how he kissed. Deep, teasing, and hungry.
Shut up, Nica! You don’t know how he kisses because that never freaking happened. Focus!
My thoughts snapped back to the podium when he folded the paper and looked up. The lights reflected off his glasses as he managed a half-smile. “All that to say, I know I’m not Quinn Paris. And I’m very well aware that I’m not nearly as popular with the fans as he is. I’ve seen some of the commentary already.”
He chuckled, and my cheeks warmed. Absentmindedly, I rubbed the bridge of my nose from where I’d straight up plowed into him last night as I stared at my phone. Was it worse that I didn’t recognize him immediately or that he knew exactly who I was?
Was it worse that I had, as he said, ghosted him or roasted him?
No. It was definitely worse that I kissed him. Again.
Leave it alone, woman. Focus, focus, focus! You can’t mess up anymore!
While I struggled to stay in the moment, Molloy went on. “But my dedication to the Commodores is unwavering, and I have a hell of a team surrounding me. We’ve got this, guys. I promise.”
His quiet oath seemed to settle everyone down. Even my skeptical heart cheered him on. I suddenly wanted him to succeed, regardless of the likes I got for talking smack about him.
The conference broke up. Journalists filed out, murmuring to each other and making notes on their phones. I pushed my shoulders off the wall and checked my messages. Several social responses and a text.
Bruce: I have some thoughts about your platform. You can lean into Molloy and win. Ready to talk more—if you’re ready to discuss my cut?
I dumped the phone into my purse. When I looked up, the room was nearly empty. Resolving to mute Bruce’s texts from now on, I hurried to trail behind the last reporters headed for the door. I held my breath until I was safely in the hallway, where I saw security escorting people to the exit.
Leaving me alone.
Alone and unsupervised. In the Commodores’ arena.
A wicked little smile curled my lips. The angel on my shoulder shut up quickly. I spun around and scurried down the hall, unsure where I was going but ready for anything.
Navy and maroon stripes on the walls gave a sense of leading me somewhere. Where, I wasn’t sure—until I got to a T in the path. A sign said To the ice with an arrow to the right. To the left, Locker Rooms .
I went left.
A short way down was a huge door. The iconic C in the Commodores’ signature font was emblazoned in the center. Further on was a door marked Visitors , so of course I tried the one in front of me. It swung open easily. With my heart in my throat, I stepped inside.
“Wow.”
The oval-shaped room was gorgeous. It was done in light wood, navy, and maroon with ambient lighting. Along the walls stood each player’s locker. Rivera, Simmons, Valentine, Ivanov… the roster went on. At the very back, side-by-side, were Paris and Molloy .
The temptation to shoot video overtook me. I knew Audrey would kill me for this if she saw it, so I’d just have to be super careful how I used the footage. I shot several slow pans of the place, ending every time on the goalies’ names.
When I had enough, I walked down for a closer view. Paris had nothing but gear in his locker, but Molloy had a little Yoda figurine on his top shelf. Huh. I went up on tiptoe and plucked it for a closer look.
“Now, I am damn sure that you’re not supposed to be here .”
My stomach crashed to the floor at the voice behind me. I whirled around to see the backup goalie himself standing with his arms crossed.
I resisted the urge to double over in a cringe. I’d done enough of that the second I got to my car last night. Jesus Christ, what a mess. How had I hit on a fucking Connecticut Commodore and not had a clue? How did I miss that entirely?
Why, oh why, oh why had I then launched myself at him like the world was ending?
Foolishness. That’s how. On that late night in that lonely bar on Long Island, I should’ve asked more questions. Thought with my head. Not been so damn vulnerable. Then I would’ve put the pieces together. I was careless and sloppy, and now I had a mess on my hands.
Instead of a cringe, I forced myself to face him. His expression was a neutral mask, giving nothing away about how angry he might be to find me snooping in his locker. In a panic, I hid the figurine behind my back.
His gaze followed the sudden movement. “What do you have?”
“N-nothing. I’ll go. Sorry, I was just…”
“Trespassing again.”
“No! Well. I mean, no. Looking.”
“Funny thing about looking in places you’re prohibited from being. It’s generally called trespassing.”
“Forget it. I’m going.” I huffed out a breath like this was all one big inconvenience.
But he stepped in my path when I tried to make for the door. One palm rose to stop me. “Not with my Yoda, you’re not.”
His voice was low, firm, and… amused? I looked from his palm to his face. He stared down at me, eyes narrowed but not angry. No emotion. Just waiting. Patient.
Since he seemed content to wait me out, I took a long moment to study him. To understand how I’d not instantly recognized him last night. To figure out how the hell I’d hit on him without a single inkling of who he was.
The more I gazed at him, the more it made sense.
He looked like a man trying to look like a hockey player and not quite succeeding. His clothes were slightly too big. His hair had some length to it but wasn’t styled like it was at the wedding. The rusty-blond mop ruffled on his forehead and over his ears.
Plus, he wore his glasses again, just like at the wedding. I couldn’t picture another player who wore glasses. He wore them well, even if they did distract from his fucking gorgeous green eyes. Damn, my memory was right. Those are the greenest eyes I’ve ever seen.
Usually green eyes were hazel. Ryan Molloy’s eyes were moss green and objectively striking. I found myself itching to pull off those glasses, comb his hair, and see if I could glam him up.
Definitely not itching to rake my fingers through that hair like I did last night. Nope. Not even a little bit.
“Give me the Yoda, please.” He broke the silence at last, flipping his wrist so his palm was outstretched.
I wet my lips. My career had been built on audacity. No reason to be meek now. “Or else what?”
His brows arched over the glasses. “It wasn’t a threat. I want my property. If you want a consequence, I guess… I’ll call security and have them arrest you for theft and trespassing? Sounds like a scandal that’ll be hard to spin to your fans.”
I clasped both hands behind my back and twisted side to side like a cheeky child. “You don’t know that. It could cement my legend status among my followers.”
“Only if you say it’s Quinn’s Yoda. Otherwise, you’ll look like you’re in cahoots with the enemy.”
“You’re not the enemy. You’re just…”
“Better on the bench?” His eyes narrowed. “Not good enough to warrant saying no to my face? No substitute for your precious Quinn, professionally or personally?”
Horror rashed over me at the implication in his words. My empty hand shot out to shove his chest. “How dare you? Paris is my job . My content is my paycheck. I know I fucked up big time by not recognizing you. I’m kicking myself for that so damn hard. But how dare you suggest I flirted with you as some kind of stand-in?”
That narrow gaze scanned me. “Then why the hell did you?”
I shoved him again. “Why the hell did you ? Why didn’t you recognize me ?”
“I don’t use social media.”
“Obviously, you don’t! When would I have seen a photo of you without your helmet on? Why would I recognize you with no context any more than you would me? And it’s not like you look like a hockey player.”
“So you didn’t flirt with me because you were upset about Quinn getting married?”
“I flirted with you because I thought you were cute, okay?” My tone made it anything but a compliment.
We both took deep breaths. Our glares didn’t abate.
At last, I spoke again softly. “Can we please just do what you said last night? Forget it ever happened. Pretend we’re total strangers?”
He blinked but then nodded. “Strangers. Yes. It’s forgotten.”
“Good.”
“Are you going to give me the Yoda or not?”
“Of course I am. I’m not an asshole.”
You sure about that? He didn’t open his mouth. The question flashed clear as day on his face.
“Hey. Don’t give me that look. I’m not. I swear.”
“You’re snooping in my locker and stealing my shit after bad-mouthing me to the entire planet—after… uh, forget it. Forgive me if I’m not enchanted.”
“At least I’m not asking for an interview.”
He exhaled hard. “Miss… whatever your real name is. Can we end this, please? I need to go. You may have heard, but I’m suddenly a little busy.”
I brought Yoda out from behind my back and held it to my chest. His jaw flexed. “Only if I get to know the story behind Yoda here.”
Brows lifted above the glasses again. “A fan made it for me a long time ago. A kid in the local hospital had his dad three-D print it for me. The kid painted it.”
Well, damn. My eyes burned at that story. “Oh, wow. That’s so sweet.”
But he glared. “Yeah. Yoda is my talisman.”
“Your what?”
“My good luck charm. He sits on my shelf all the time for luck.” He stepped closer and bent so we were face-to-face. “And you, ma’am, have now fucked with it.”
“I… oh. I didn’t know you were superstitious.”
That got me a sly smile. “I’m a goalie. What did you expect?”
Now I really wanted to pull those glasses off and kiss him again. The urge slapped me upside the head so hard that my breath caught. You literally just agreed to be strangers. What the hell, Nica?
Calm down. It’s just goalie core. You know you can’t resist their quirks. That this guy has them is… inconvenient, sure. But pull yourself together, woman.
“How… how can I un-fuck with it?”
He held his palm between us. I glanced down, sighed, and surrendered the toy. With a sharp inhale, he spun for his locker and put Yoda back in the exact spot he’d been before. His back was still to me when he said, “You can’t. You’ve fucked with it. The question will now be, for good or for ill?”
“How will you know?”
Ryan Molloy turned around and crossed his arms over his broad shoulders. He tilted his head and studied me head to foot. “I guess we’ll find out on game night.”
I opened my mouth to respond but snapped it shut when my phone vibrated in my pocket. I recognized the double buzz of a text and whipped it out to check. In the corner of my eye, I saw him doing the same on his.
“Excuse me. I have somewhere to be.”
“Same.” He pocketed the phone and fell in step beside me.
I tried not to look at him as I strode down the hall, back toward the conference room and around to the elevators. By the time I stabbed the button, my heart was in my throat. Why are you following me?
“I promise I’m not trespassing,” I said under my breath.
“I promise I don’t believe you.”
I breathed a little laugh at the smile that threatened his face. The elevator arrived, and that smile vanished. We stepped in. He beat me to pressing the third floor. As we walked down the hall, I could feel his side-eye on me.
Audrey blinked in surprise when we both stopped in her doorway. “Oh, wow. I didn’t think you’d be here at the same time. Ah, Ryan, can you hang out in the conference room for a minute, please? I’ll text you to join us.”
He strode away, and I slipped into the office chair like I’d snuck in despite the invite. Audrey flashed me a tired smile.
“Hey, girl. How are you doing?” I asked to break the ice.
Her eyes shimmered. “It’s, ah, not easy. Quinn is so sweet, but it’s obvious this is killing him. He’s ready to climb the walls already. I think he may… go spend some time with his mom on Long Island. Just for a change of scenery.”
My nose wrinkled. “Shit. I’m so sorry. This is supposed to be your honeymoon.”
“Yeah. That’s definitely been postponed for now. I knew the season would keep us busy, but I didn’t imagine… anyway. We’ll get through it. It’s not a problem between us, but it’s still hard. You know?”
I didn’t, but I nodded anyway.
She pressed her hands to her cheeks and drew in a breath. “Sorry. I didn’t ask you here to hear all my woes. How’s business?”
I pressed my lips into a line, trying to dam all the words threatening to spill. She doesn’t need to know you’re struggling. She’s got her problems. You’re lucky she gives you what she does… fuck it.
The dam broke. “I’m so tired of it, Audrey. He’s your husband. He seems so nice, but god . Who’d have thought I would still be posting thirst trap videos two years later? Do you know how old this whole thing is? But I can’t let it go because it’s my job now. If I have to close it without something else, I’m gonna wind up… up… sorry.”
I dropped my forehead into my hands. Heat rushed my face at my pitiful word vomit. “I’m so sorry. I know you have your own shit to handle,” I mumbled, face to the floor.
Audrey cleared her throat. “Wow, Nica. I… had no idea you felt that way.”
I peeked up at her and rolled my eyes. “Not quite the stalker you thought, hm?”
She flickered a smile. “That’s part of it, I’ll admit. But also, it’s kind of nice to hear you’re looking for something else. You’d say you’re looking for work, then?”
I sat up straight again. “I definitely would say that.”
She sat back in her chair and gestured to the door. “Molloy is the man of the moment, but he has no platform. He’s too young and filling too big a gap to stay unnoticed. The Commodores have become one of the most popular teams in the league, and fans want content. Even Gene has his own profiles.
“I’d like to hire you to write a bio on him. Puck Drop Daily has agreed to publish a freelance article. They’ll have editorial privileges, of course. They’ll pay you per word. I’ll pay you per day and cover any expenses—gas, food, whatever. You’ll come to practice and training. Attend a few home games where you’ll shadow me to get a sense of how the team operates.
“And, of course, you’ll spend time with Ryan for one-on-one Q and A. I can’t promise how fruitful that’ll be, but he's obligated to do interviews. I’d love if you could go really in-depth and find some click-worthy angles, but I’m not asking for a miracle. Just a feature.”
“A real news story? You think I’m the right person for this?”
She shrugged. “Honestly, I don’t know. But also honestly, I don’t have time to interview freelancers. The press wants news on Quinn right now, and I want them looking at Molloy. Quinn needs privacy. Molloy needs an image. You make people listen. I don’t have the mental real estate to think too hard on this. Are you in?”
I blew out a breath. Ryan Molloy was the last person I would’ve picked to try and “go really in-depth with” at the moment. Or he was the first but for all the wrong reasons. Either way, this golden opportunity was also a minefield.
You can make something out of literally nothing, girlie. This is a chance. This is money on the table. We might not lift from pockets like Momma, but we do not leave money on the table.
“Of course. I’ll do my best.”
She picked up her phone and typed before I finished speaking. When she set it down, her eyes shimmered again. “Thanks, Nica. I appreciate it. I, ah, also appreciate your honesty.”
“Sure… Um, I’m not really a hugger, but do you need a hug?”
Audrey laughed and rubbed her eyes under her glasses. “Yes. I do.”
I ran around the desk while she stood up. This was awkward as hell, but it also wasn’t. She was a woman in a hard spot. I knew about being in hard spots. Why wouldn’t I support her? I squeezed her hard and let her squeeze me right back.
The door opened. Ryan cleared his throat. Audrey and I stepped apart, trading a smile, and I went back to the chair.
“Have a seat, Molls.” Audrey gestured to the second chair.
He perched like it might be booby-trapped. “What’s up?”
“Ryan Molloy, this is Nica Solance. She’s best known as her online handle, uh, Mrs. Quentin Paris.” Audrey breathed a laugh that made me blush and smile.
His jaw flexed. “I know who she is.”
“Nica is going to do a feature on you for Puck Drop Daily .”
“What?” The question burst out of him, jolting Audrey and me.
Audrey’s cheeks colored. “She’s going to write a feature on you. She’ll shadow you—and me—for a few weeks. You’ll need to schedule at least three interviews with her in that time, too. I know you’re not used to talking to the press, but it is part of your contract.”
Molloy’s breath came in short puffs through his nose. “I… Audrey, I don’t want her.”
Ouch.
But Audrey pursed her lips and lifted her chin. “Ryan, there’s a lot I don’t want right now. But we can’t always have our way, now can we? Too damn bad, buddy. She’s doing this.”
He sighed and nodded once. Audrey dismissed us, and I followed him back to the elevators. In the lift, he gazed straight ahead and sighed again. “Totally fucked,” he said softly.
I didn’t dare reply in case I jinxed him even more.
Two nights later, I stood in front of the arena while fans streamed inside. My thumb tapped record, and I tossed my hair and puckered my lips. “It’s night one of the Molloy era. Are we going to survive, besties? Do we dare cheer for the other goalie? My darling Quentin says he’s confident in his backup’s skills. I guess if the GOAT himself says so, maybe we can give him a chance. What do you think? Is it cheating if I say ‘Go Ryan’? Comment below!”
By the time security escorted me to the owner’s box, I had 20 comments to the effect of #goRyango and #CommodoresForLife. I also had 20 comments chastising me for being disloyal to Quentin. My favorite was, “If u r really his wife, you’d never dream of supporting someone else.”
“Ouch.” I laughed as I typed a reply. Thanks, hun. Xoxo . No point reminding everyone of the glaring truth—that I was not, in fact, Quentin Paris’s wife. Besides, three people replied to the comment saying just that before I could even post.
I smiled at the phone, pleased at the buzz. It was good for my platform, it got people talking about Ryan, and it kept me from fixating on the game.
Which I may or may not have been fixated on for the past day or so.
Not that the butterflies in my stomach had anything to do with that silly Yoda. I was just curious how this game would go was all. Definitely didn’t think for a second that I might’ve fucked the whole team over between snooping and getting this gig. Nope, that was absurd.
I gulped while the door swung open. It’s fine. It’s just a game. It’s just the owner’s box. Fake it till you make it, girlie.
Audrey greeted me with a smile. “Come on in. We’ll watch from up here and then go down to the ice at the end. Want a drink?”
I let her lead me inside. She introduced me to Hunter Cathcart, the freaking owner of the freaking Commodores. Fair, I’d shook hands with him at the wedding, too. But this was different. This was game night.
You’re supposed to be here, Nica. You don’t have to hide. You don’t have to sneak food into your bag. You don’t have to do anything but relax. So, freaking relax!
The team stormed the ice, and we all took seats. I chose a front-row chair and watched while they skated laps in their zone. Ryan left the formation and glided to his net. He dropped down, legs spread wide to stretch on the ice.
I didn’t blink until he stood up. Then, I shut my eyes and sucked in a breath. He’s a goalie. Of course you’re gonna crush a little. You thirst scroll goalie footage for crying out loud. Shake this one off. It’s no big deal.
God, I hope I didn’t ruin our season.