Chapter 8
Margot
From our VIP seats above the glass, the rink is a blinding white stage.
The arena is filling up and the building hums with anticipation as music pulses overhead.
The players are out for warm-ups, both teams sharing the ice for now, skating in loose loops on their own halves.
My eyes keep drifting to Cillian as he glides effortlessly across the ice.
Apparently this is the final game of the regular season, and since the team has already locked up their playoff spot, I've been told tonight is "basically one giant party.
" The entire arena appears to be a sea of black and gold, making my blazer and heels feel like I took a wrong turn on the way to a board meeting.
"You look lovely," Carol says, sounding amused as she offers me a glass of wine. She’s currently sporting a Renegades quarter-zip that appears suspiciously fresh, as if it were peeled off a mannequin in the gift shop mere minutes ago.
"I look like I'm here to audit them," I say, fiddling with my cuff button like that's going to help anything.
"A very chic auditor, then." She taps her plastic cup against mine with a soft clink.
Carol settles into the seat beside her wife, Elaine, who has managed to make a team jersey look like a runway piece with pushed-up sleeves, gold hoops, and a perfectly messy twist. I really should have let Sabrina talk me into the bedazzled denim jacket.
Carol bumps her shoulder against mine. "Try to have some fun, yeah? We’ve got the game tonight and the gala tomorrow, and then you’re in the clear. Easy breezy."
"Easy breezy," I murmur. I am many things, but breezy has never been one of them.
By the time the buzzer sounds and the players begin filtering off the ice and back into the tunnel, the crowd has fully arrived, and the energy in the building has shifted noticeably.
The Zamboni rolls out to resurface the ice while the jumbotron loops through highlight reels in a continuous celebration of past Renegades glory.
I'm halfway through my glass of wine when the lights finally drop, and a spotlight stabs down onto center ice.
The announcer begins to introduce the starting lineup, each name met with a mounting roar until he reaches Cillian's and draws it out, O'ROOOOURKE, and the crowd erupts so loudly I feel like my eardrums are going to burst.
The Golden Boy has arrived.
The players line up at the blue line for the anthem, helmets pinned under their arms. When the last note fades, the house lights vanish entirely and the music kicks back in with bass so loud I can feel it vibrating.
Thousands of people surge to their feet as one, and the entire building begins to pulse like a giant, black-and-gold lung.
The puck hits the ice.
Instantly they're all flying, hurtling across the ice at speeds that seem frankly inadvisable. They are giant men, but they move with a surprising grace, and Cillian is the most graceful of the lot. He weaves through the chaos like gravity is just a suggestion.
A few minutes in, Cillian snags the puck near one of the blue lines and, without even seeming to look, sends it flying across the ice to a teammate who knocks it in.
"WHOOO!" the woman seated next to me shrieks, surging to her feet. Her arm collides with mine in the excitement, and a sudden wave of pale pink rosé sloshes directly onto the lapel of my blazer. She gapes at me in horror. "Oh my God, I am so sorry! I tend to lose my mind during the opening period."
"It's fine, really," I laugh, holding the fabric away from my body to prevent any further dripping.
"No, please, let me help!" She frantically snatches a stack of napkins from the cup holder and begins dabbing.
She's undeniably stunning, with a mass of honey-blonde curls piled into a clip, a team jersey knotted to reveal a sliver of her waist, and a meticulously curated full-glam makeup look that I've always envied on others but usually find a touch too overwhelming for my own face.
“Well I caused it, so it’s the least I can do.” She smiles and extends a hand. "Brittany."
"Margot." I shake it, smiling back.
"Margot. Such a cute name. And you've got a really classy look going, so it suits you. Is this your first game?"
"Is it that obvious?" I laugh, tucking the wine-soaked napkin into my empty cup.
"You've got first-game energy. It's adorable." She angles toward me, fully committed, and I like her instantly.
I laugh. "Yes, I pretty much know nothing about hockey. I tried to watch a YouTube video explaining the rules in the parking lot, but I think I came out more confused than when I started."
"Don't even worry, I will be your hockey guide. By the third period you'll be screaming at the refs with the rest of us." She tips her chin toward the Solstice crew. "And I'm assuming based on your friend's clothing that you're rooting for the Renegades?"
I steal a glance at Carol and Elaine, who are currently deep in conversation with a few people from marketing. "I suppose I am. It's a work obligation, mostly. To be honest, I've never set foot in an arena before, but... go Renegades, I guess?"
"That's the spirit!" she says, her smile wide and encouraging. "What sort of work? Is that how you scored the VIP seats?"
"Yep. I'm a sommelier and do some client relations stuff. We signed a partnership with Cillian, so I'm sort of here flying the flag."
"The wine thing! I heard about that. Well, you ought to have fun with him." She winks and nudges my ribs.
"Oh, no," I say quickly. "It's not like that."
"Don't worry, babe, you don't need to perform anything for me.
I am a non-judgmental zone." She waves a hand breezily.
“Full disclosure, in the spirit of girl code, Cillian and I hooked up a few times back in the day.
Very casual though, and I'm actually trying to lock down Betts these days if I can. "
I blink. "Um. Well, that's… good?"
"Yeah, Betts is a big softie under all the muscle, and he seems like the settle-down type, which is my new thing this year." She nods like she's making a sensible business pivot.
"That's great," I manage. "But just to be clear, it's really not in the cards for me with Cillian."
"Well, I can help with that." She grins. "I haven't slept with him in ages, but we still run in the same circles. I'll put in a good word for you with him."
"Please do not put in a good word for me with him." My voice has gone slightly strangled.
"Honestly, it's no trouble at all, because trust me, he is unreal in bed," she continues, entirely undeterred by my mounting horror.
"The man actually respects women, which is a total unicorn in hockey.
And he eats pussy like his life depends on it.
I have never, in my entire life, been so thoroughly taken care of. "
"I'm not sure I needed to know that," I say, my head spinning at the vivid mental image she handed me. I shoot Carol a desperate look down the row, but she’s deep in conversation and entirely unaware that I am in need of rescue.
"You know the article that came out a few years back?" Brittany asks, oblivious to the fact that I am turning the color of my rosé.
Unfortunately I do. It was inescapable—a piece of gossip detailing a romantic history that suggested Cillian was sleeping his way through a small municipality. It should have been a devastating blow to his image.
Instead, every woman interviewed had nothing but glowing reviews, and one quote famously dubbed him "the king of consent" in print. Rather than a career-ender, it somehow solidified his status as the league's golden boy.
"I'm familiar," I say.
"Well, let me tell you, the article undersold it." Brittany leans in conspiratorially. "If you ever get the chance, trust me. Worth. The. Ride."
She winks at me again, and I can feel my ears actively radiating heat. I turn back to the game in time for one of the Renegades to get absolutely flattened into the glass. The whole section surges up howling for blood, Brittany included, and I clutch my empty cup like it's a support animal.
"See that guy?" she says, pointing at the player who delivered the hit. "Number nineteen. Lucas Anderson. As Renegades fans, we hate him. He's a dirty player, and he did an interview last year where he said some shitty things about women in sports media. So, like, villain on every count."
I follow her finger. The man in question is built like a refrigerator, and a wave of irritation moves through me. I find that I am, somewhat against my will, now openly rooting for Cillian or one of the Renegades to ruin his night.
A minute later, the Renegades break out of their own zone, and Cillian takes the puck up the middle, and the building rises around me in this swelling wave of sound, he slips between two defenders and threads a pass through traffic, and his teammate buries it.
And suddenly I'm on my feet screaming with everyone else.
"Yes! Get it!" Brittany shouts, throwing her arms around me.
It is strangely exhilarating. The noise, the speed, thousands of strangers all wanting the same thing at the same moment. The team piles together to celebrate and I see Cillian in the middle of it, that dimpled smile lit up under his helmet, knocking heads with the teammate who scored.
Brittany leans into me as we sit back down. "Did you see that pass? He's been having an off year compared to his usual, but he's still better than ninety percent of these guys on his worst day."
"He's been off?" I ask, my eyes still on him as he glides toward the bench.
"Yeah. An injury awhile back. He used to be like a machine on the ice, but lately it's like he loses his cool, forces things, makes mistakes he never used to make.
And then he gets stuck in his own head about it.
He's his own worst critic." She gives me a meaningful look.
"But he hates when people make a thing of it. "
"I wouldn't dream of it," I promise, my gaze lingering on him.