Chapter 2 Like a Pit Bull in the Sun
Like a Pit Bull in the Sun
Darcy
The Florida humidity sticks to me even after I’ve staggered into the air-conditioned hotel lobby. But the heat makes sense, because I’m suddenly in hell. I can’t believe that Eric Tremaine just found me drooling on myself. So mortifying.
I’d been floating along in a dream state when I’d heard a low, sexy voice. “Darcy. Hey there, Darcy?”
My first reaction had been: Oh yes, baby. Say more. But when I’d eventually opened my eyes, I’d been filled with horror. Out of two dozen players, it had to be Eric Tremaine who found me? I let out a groan, and a bellhop gives me a quizzical look.
You’d groan, too, buddy. My working relationship with Eric Tremaine is already complicated. He’s at the tippy top of the Legends food chain, and I’m on the bottom. Since he’s the captain of the team, I interact with him more than with other players.
Unfortunately, he’s also the only one who makes my stomach flip every time I look at him. It’s not just his Hollywood face, either. Or those long eyelashes. And don’t even get me started on that jaw.
I’ve met pretty men before. But Tremaine just has that X factor.
It’s like someone took Michelangelo’s David, put him in a suit that costs more than my monthly rent, giving him the ability to make my knees weak just by saying good morning.
I’ve seen him break up locker room arguments with nothing but a raised eyebrow—an eyebrow that probably has more authority than my entire résumé.
The worst part? He’s genuinely nice. Like, rescues-kittens nice. I’ve seen him slam guys into the boards during games and then politely apologize afterward. Who does that?
Honestly, before I met Eric, I would’ve told you that I’m not even into nice guys. But he’s changed me. I’d die of embarrassment if he knew how often I think about him. Or, fine, dream about him.
And now he knows that I sleep with my mouth open like a pit bull in a sun patch, tongue lolling.
Still bleary, I practically lurch through the hotel lobby, past the bank of windows with their expansive view of the marshes at twilight. The light is soft and blurry. Or maybe that’s just my exhaustion talking.
In many ways, my job resembles the night sky—it’s so glamorous from afar.
But if you peer through a telescope and look closer, you realize even the brightest stars are burning themselves out.
And the playoffs aren’t over yet. We’ve made it to round three, and game seven is tomorrow night.
If my boys win, then we’re on to the finals.
Giving my head a shake, I trudge toward the Palmetto Room to check on the team meal. The travel department made all the arrangements remotely, but my boss is a control freak who insists that I verify everything personally. And when anything goes wrong, he yells.
Inside the banquet room, I see a dozen tables already set for the dinner service. That’s a good sign. But I’ve learned to take nothing for granted. So I push open the kitchen door, finding a beehive of activity.
I inhale the scent of grilled chicken and garlic. Another good sign. “Hello, Chef González? Are we on track for six thirty?”
She strides into view, a cleaver in her hand, her face in a bitchy frown. “Of course we are.” She grabs a clipboard off a nail on the wall and thrusts it at me. “It’s everything you asked for. Twice as much protein as forty people really need, and my special empanadas.”
“They’re professional athletes, they eat a lot,” I remind her, scanning the menu.
“Don’t remind me. If they win tomorrow night, that makes me a traitor.” She turns toward the busy soldiers in chefs’ whites. “GO FLORIDA!”
“Go Florida, Chef!” the kitchen staff shouts back in unison.
I’d almost be impressed except I realize something is missing from the menu. “I asked for a single bottle of a 2015 Bordeaux for the head table.” It’s my boss’s standard request everywhere we go.
The chef shrugs. “Y’all didn’t arrange for bar service. That’s a separate bill. I got nothing to offer unless you want cooking sherry. That’s the policy.”
“A single bottle,” I press. “For the boss who green-lit this expensive meal in your hotel.”
Another shrug. “I just don’t have it to give. And—hands to Jesus—I’d be happier if y’all ate elsewhere. GO FLORIDA!”
“Go Florida, Chef!”
Sigh. I know a lost cause when I see it. Chef González is part of the same pecking order that I am. She’s expected to keep her head down, follow the rules, and make her own boss happy. “Fine. I’ll handle it. See you in a half hour for the meal.”
“Yes, Miss Kendrick. All will be ready.”
I leave the kitchen and head out to the lobby bar, where a couple of younger players are sipping iced tea and playing cards. Damn it, Eric Tremaine is there, too, shoving a straw into a smoothie.
“Hey, Darcy,” he says. “Want a soda? Or a smoothie?”
“No, thank you,” I say, avoiding his pretty gray eyes. “I’m on the clock.”
I waltz right past him and approach the bar. “Excuse me,” I say to the two young bartenders, who are standing together, whispering. They’re almost certainly gossiping about the professional athletes in their midst.
One of them finally bothers to approach. “What can I get you?”
“What do you have in a 2015 Bordeaux?”
He reaches for the wine list. “Prolly something in here…”
I grab it out of his hands and flip to the back. “Here we go. Chateau d’Issan. I’ll take the bottle, uncorked.”
He frowns. “They do bottles upstairs in the restaurant. Down here at the bar, we only sell it by the glass. That’s our policy.”
I’m trapped in a doom loop of stupidity. “Okay. Fine. I’d like five glasses, please.” I push my boss’s credit card across the bar.
“’Kay,” he says. “Gimme a minute to get the bottle from the cellar.”
He hustles off, and I prop my face in my hands and close my eyes. I’m still so sleepy. The Legends played deep into overtime last night to tie up the series. Then we woke up early in the morning and flew here, heading straight to the arena for a practice after the flight.
I indulge in a fantasy of sleeping in late tomorrow. Even though it will never happen.
“Problem?” asks a low, sexy voice.
I yank my head up and find Eric Tremaine standing in front of me. “All good,” I say quickly. “Just buying some wine for the boss. You know how he is.”
“Yeah, I do.” Tremaine smiles, and my stomach does a little flip.
Gah.
The bartender reappears and makes a show of opening the bottle. It would cost ninety dollars at a store. God only knows what the hotel is going to charge us.
Not my problem, though. The bartender pours out the bottle into five goblets and lines them up on the bar. “You got four friends?”
“They’ll be along later,” I say. “Can I see the bottle? That’s a nice label.”
“Sure.” He hands it over.
Eric frowns at me as I set the bottle on the bar and grab a laminated appetizer menu off the bar. “What are you doing?”
“This will make a good funnel. Hold the bottle steady, would you?” I curl the menu into a cone shape and poke the end into the bottle.
He grabs the bottle and secures it, no questions asked. That’s just how he rolls—one minute he’s wiping up the rink with his opponent. The next minute, he’ll turn around and help the cleaning staff collect empty cups after a meeting because “everyone’s job matters to the team.”
Like, sir? That’s not allowed. You can’t be both the most intimidating person on the ice AND the kind of guy who remembers the security guard’s grandson just started kindergarten. Pick a lane.
He leans in, steadying the bottle, and I can smell his shower soap as I pick up one of the goblets and decant it carefully through my makeshift funnel back into the bottle.
“Interesting way to enjoy a glass of wine,” he says with a chuckle.
“Hush. Mr. Sharp wants what he wants, and sometimes I have to get creative. Just hold still for another minute, would you?”
“Hey, miss?” the bartender says, suddenly paying attention to me. “You can’t take that to go!”
“Sure I can,” I insist, grabbing the second goblet. “You sold it to me in glasses, like a good employee. What I do with it is my business. Now, where’s my check?”
He blinks at me a second before walking away to charge my boss’s card.
I make quick work of the other wineglasses while Eric snickers to himself. “You deked him.”
“He had it coming. Thanks for the assist.”
“My pleasure.” He gives me another dangerous smile.
Five minutes later, I’ve delivered the bottle to the Palmetto Room—along with one of the goblets, which I’ve washed and dried carefully in Chef González’s kitchen. I text the boss that his wine is waiting at his table.
Then? I head into the lobby, where there aren’t any bosses or hockey players. And I flop down for a moment’s rest. Honestly, it’s tempting to go upstairs to the comfortable room I share with Zoe, the Legends’ skating coach, and also my best friend.
But I can’t do it. The allure of my bed would be too great. So I check my email instead.
The first message I find makes me feel even more exhausted. It’s from my half sister, Tessa, and the subject line is T-MINUS TEN DAYS UNTIL THE JACK-AND-JILL WEDDING SHOWER! PUT ON YOUR DANCING SHOES!
At the sight of it, a little wave of despair rolls over me. The playoffs are exhausting, but once they’re over, I’ll be steeling myself for a family wedding. My half brother is getting married, and I have to show up and smile for the photos.
I dread it.
My brother and I aren’t close, and I’d hoped I wouldn’t be invited.
Unfortunately, my invitation had arrived on thick, expensive paper—the kind with rose petals embedded into it.
It was the most pretentious document I’d ever seen in my life.
And the worst part was a brief personal note from my father, telling me that he expected to see me there.
But before we even get to the wedding, there’s this shower that I’ve also been ignoring. I’m pretty sure I deleted the first email about it, assuming that I’d be in the middle of the playoffs and unable to attend. And that might still be true.