Chapter 4 The Team Intervention
THE TEAM INTERVENTION
ROWAN
“I’m waiting,” I say, crossing my arms. We moved to the hotel bar thirty minutes ago, and I still haven’t gotten an explanation from these clowns.
Like, what the hell was that ambush?
“And you’re so patient,” Miles says, signaling to the bartender. “But this calls for a drink.”
The bartender wears a ridiculous Santa hat, tipped to the side, and a too-cool-for-school vest. He presents me with a glass garnished with a sprig of rosemary.
“Our best Macallan, Christmas-tree style, courtesy of your friends,” he announces, nodding to Miles and Tyler.
I pick up the glass, eye the festive decoration, and flick it aside, refusing to let holiday cheer sully my drink. No way am I turning down a Macallan. Especially since I’m not driving tonight.
I take a long swallow, enjoying the burn in my throat, and then fix my stare on the group. If this is their idea of a prank, more power to them. A matchmaker for me is a most excellent April Fool’s joke. But it’s November, a day past Thanksgiving, and the joke’s gone on a little too long.
Plus, Miles and Tyler have roped in half the team for this prank.
Hugo, another defenseman, leans against the bar, grinning like this is the funniest thing he’s seen all year.
Wesley, our winger-slash-playlist curator, chats with Asher—also a winger and officially the nicest guy on the planet.
Even Max, our goalie and former team grump, nurses a drink here as he hangs out with the other guys in this corner of the bar.
It feels like a trap. I’m pretty sure that’s because it is.
“I smell a rat,” I say, narrowing my eyes.
“You’ve got a good nose,” Tyler says, clapping me on the back.
Then the lead rat himself strolls in—my agent, Jason. Black hair, a movie star smile, and an expensive suit. I point at him like we’re in a court of law. “Did you put those clowns up to it?”
“Up to what?” Jason asks, too innocently.
“You know what.” I spread my arms, indicating the whole crew. “Also, you weren’t at the auction, so why the hell are you here now?” The smell of rat intensifies.
“I wouldn’t miss this post-auction moment for the world,” Jason says. He might as well be tossing popcorn into his mouth. “The wife and I put the kids to bed, and then I hoofed it over.”
I huff. “What the hell is this?”
Jason smirks. “Merry Christmas, Rowan.” He nods toward the guys gathered around the sleek hotel bar, which reeks of luxury, good times, and festive nights. “Did you thank your teammates for the gift?”
I turn to Tyler, my jaw ticking. “You’re the mastermind, aren’t you? You do know people can refuse gifts. It’s a thing.”
Tyler clears his throat. “Yeah, about that.”
I groan and drag a hand through my hair, not liking his response. Not one bit. “What part of ‘I can just refuse’ are you not getting?”
Miles drums his fingers on the counter, his expression turning serious. “You could, Rowan…but this is for your own good.”
And there it is. That captain voice. The tone Miles uses when shit’s going sideways in a game. The tone that tells me I’ve crossed a line. It has the reaction in me he’s probably hoping for—I sit up straighter.
“What’s going on?” I ask, all focus now.
Miles draws a deep breath. “Think of this,” he says, gesturing to all the guys who have my back on the ice in every game, “as a team intervention. That’s why we’re all here.”
A holiday intervention? I swallow uncomfortably, my arms tensing. I don’t like the sound of this. And I sure as hell don’t like the sound of Wham!’s “Last Christmas” playing in the background, the lyrics about someone giving away the heart they were given hitting a little too close to home.
“An intervention,” I repeat, my voice sharp with disbelief. “For what, exactly?”
Max raises his glass like he’s making a toast. “You’ve had it rough in the romance department.
I get that. You were served a shit platter on top of a shit sandwich on top of a shit ice cream sundae.
” There’s a touch of sympathy in Max’s voice, the sound of a man who’s been put through the romance wringer too.
He pauses, eyes locked on me, then says bluntly.
“It’s time to start over. And you need this. ”
“I don’t need this,” I counter, since I’m not like him; I haven’t found a silver lining to love the way he has, “any more than I need a shit sandwich.”
The guys laugh, but Miles doesn’t break his serious expression as he takes over the conversation—I mean, intervention—again. “You do, man,” he says, clearly meaning it from the bottom of his heart. “That’s why we all pitched in. We want a new chance for you.”
“For fuck’s sake,” I mutter, irritation rising like a wave. I’m pissed now. But in the way I get mad when I fail at blocking a shot that sneaks into the net. “Why?”
Asher steps in, calm as ever, warm as the sun on a cold day. “The Christmas Eve gala is coming up. It’s the team’s biggest fundraiser of the year.”
Right, I know that. The Nutcracker Auction kicks off the season of fundraising for the team and the charities we support. “So?”
“So, you need a date,” Tyler says matter-of-factly.
I flap a hand toward the godforsaken, overdecorated Snowflake Room I was in earlier tonight. “I didn’t have a date here tonight. I didn’t have one to the Christmas Eve gala last year. Or the few years before.”
“We know,” Miles says, sounding exasperated. “We’re aware.”
“Then what’s the problem? Why do I need a date? Dating is for other people.”
And mostly, that’s true. I’ll go out now and then, but I’m done handing over my heart.
After that brutal Christmas almost five years ago when my ex eviscerated the organ in my chest, I put a hard stop at the third date.
No attachments, no risks. The gala is a big fucking deal.
You bring girlfriends, wives, partners—not some woman you met last week on an app.
“The problem,” Miles begins, his tone thoughtful, like a teacher, “is that every year at the Christmas Eve gala, when we want to have a good time with our wives and girlfriends and enjoy the mistletoe with them, we have to take turns babysitting you and listening to your hate list instead.”
Ouch. “Dig the knife in a little deeper, why don’t you?”
“Rowan. Seriously. I mean it,” Miles says.
I peer at my back, miming tugging out a blade. “Can you all see the stab wound? It’s pretty bloody.”
“Dude, you do have a hate list and we’re all subjected to it,” Tyler says, like he’s been champing at the bit to make this point for eleven consecutive months.
“You weren’t even at the gala last year,” I point out.
“But I heard all about it. And I was at the end-of-season picnic with Sabrina, and we were definitely subjected to your hate list then too,” Tyler adds, digging even deeper with his knife.
“I do not have a hate list,” I protest.
The whole group erupts into laughter.
“I hate holiday music,” Hugo says, imitating me. “I hate Mariah Carey. I hate wrapping paper. I hate tinsel.’”
“You even hate my cool tunes,” Wesley chimes in, chest puffed, like he’s ready to bro battle me. “Plus, you hate tinsel? What the fuck, man?”
“Let’s not forget—you complain about commercialism,” Max adds.
“That’s a valid complaint. The world doesn’t need more stuff,” I say. Or maybe I shout it.
“But even if you don’t buy more things, you can still give experiences as gifts,” Tyler says, then shoots me an I know what you did an hour ago look. “Like buying carolers for your enemy.”
My jaw comes unhinged. How the hell does he know what I plan to do with the carolers? Am I that transparent? I knock back some scotch to avoid the questioning—both from him and from the little voice in my head.
But the hits keep coming as Jason pins me with a look and goes for the jugular. “And every year at the gala, you issue your warning. ‘If anyone else tells me how they met their true love at Christmas, I’m going to tell them my story just to ruin their night.’”
Ouch. I sound like an asshole. Like a giant jerk of a cat who knocks mugs and shit off counters for no reason, then pisses in them too. Still, that doesn’t mean I want to be set up. Crossing my arms, I glare at them. “Your solution is a matchmaker?”
Jason grins, his confidence never wavering, his eyes gleaming as he says, “My sister is going to find a date for you. In one short year, Isla’s become one of the best matchmakers in the city.
She matched the executive director of the San Francisco Art Museum with a noted venture capitalist. She paired one of the agents in my office with an artist that Asher’s wife knows.
And,” he says, then takes a deep, too satisfying breath, “she matched your coach with his new girlfriend.”
Damn. Coach McBride had been notoriously single for some time. I blow out a breath but say nothing.
“Her client list is incredible,” he continues. “And her success rate is way better than your shot percentage.”
I want to argue that a shot percentage for a defenseman isn’t supposed to be high. But one, he knows that. And two, the air feels heavy right now.
I hide a gulp as best I can while I look around at the guys I go to war with every day on the ice.
I see the care in their faces—they’re irritatingly earnest. They really think this is for my own good.
And worse, I realize something I’ve never thought of before: I’ve been ruining their good time.
I flash back to the last few galas. Fine, maybe I complained about the decor.
Possibly I groused about the guests. Likely, I went kicking and screaming into the event just like I did earlier tonight.
And yup, they fucking babysat my single ass.
Embarrassment, and maybe even some shame, slams into me. These guys are my family, and I hate that I’ve been the one to dampen the mood.
“Fine,” I grumble. “But this doesn’t mean I’ll like it.”
“You will,” Miles says with infuriating certainty.
“Doubtful. But whatever.”
Jason’s smirk turns into a smile. A real one. Like he wants this for me. Badly. “The date isn’t just for the gala, by the way,” he says, too hopeful for my taste, but perfectly on brand for his happy ass. “It’s for the next thing, and the next thing after that. You know, to give you some…momentum.”
I nearly choke on my scotch. “Momentum? You think this is going to turn into some kind of rom-com montage? Or worse, a relationship?”
Miles leans in, unflappable as ever. “It’s about finding someone who fits, man. Not just for one night. Sure, we’ll start with the gala, but that’ll be the beginning for you. And we get it—dating is hard. That’s why we got you a matchmaker instead of a subscription to a new app.”
“Gee, thanks,” I deadpan.
“We’re not going to leave you stranded looking for love. She’ll help you every step of the way.”
Feels like jail time. “Amazing,” I mutter.
My sarcasm is lost on them. “It is going to be great. She’s damn good at what she does,” Jason says, clearly proud of both his sister and my teammates’ gift. “And it’s going to work.”
Like hell it will.
Jason presses her name on his phone, and a moment later, Isla sweeps into the hotel bar.
She’s a burst of energy, rubbing her palms together with a bright, confident smile that I’m desperately trying to not think about kissing off her as she says, “Gentlemen, thank you for giving me this opportunity.” She turns to Jason and the team.
“I love a challenge, and I always rise to them.”
Jason chuckles as he gives her a hug. “This will be your toughest one ever,” he says and ha, fucking, ha.
Miles grins. “We’re rooting for you.”
“I won’t let you down,” Isla says with complete assurance, her smile never faltering. Her pretty, pink smile that I really need to stop fixating on. “We’ll find him a date before Santa can even check his naughty or nice list.”
Right. Sure. Because nothing screams holiday cheer like meddling friends and forced matchmaking.
They think I’m cornered, but I’ve got my own playbook.
I’ll take their damn gift to keep them happy, but I’ll be playing along when I go on dates.
Acting as if I’m opening my heart. But really, I’ll just be going through the motions, and keeping my heart where it belongs—on ice.
I’ll fake it for my friends’ sake, but no way am I finding my Christmas love, or any other kind.
Ever again.