Chapter Five
Owen
A couple of days after my first meeting with the Nightmare from North Shore, Dante’s driver picks me up at my place. Remy is already waiting in the back seat.
She looks like she belongs there, like this whole setup was her idea and the rest of us are catching up. It’s the confidence that does it more than anything else. Not loud, not showy. Just… settled. I don’t trust it.
I do a double-take even before I’m fully through the door. “What are you wearing?” I demand.
It shouldn’t bother me as much as it does. It’s just a jersey. Team colors. Branding. But seeing her in it—like she’s part of this now, part of my mess—sets my teeth on edge.
She lifts an eyebrow and gestures to her torso. “I would have thought you’d be familiar with your team’s colors.”
Aaaand, there we are, off to a shitty start already.
Of course, I know the Venom’s colors; I just wasn’t expecting my handler to be wearing a Vegas Venom jersey when she picked me up for the first stop on my apology tour.
I drag myself into the back seat and slam the door behind me.
From the house, I can barely hear Shutout’s resulting howl.
The old guy has strong feelings about intruders in his driveway.
Like owner, like pet, I guess.
“Didn’t know you were a fan,” I say to Remy as I fumble with my seatbelt.
Of course, I manage to be a total klutz as the seatbelt gets stuck no less than three times in the process of settling in.
Her attention makes me nervous, and I’m unreasonably worried about fucking up in front of her.
I may not like her, but I don’t want her to think that the version of me she saw in that video is the real Owen Rourke.
Which is ridiculous. I’ve played in front of twenty thousand people without blinking. I’ve taken slapshots to the mask and kept going. But one woman sitting three feet away, watching me like she’s already figured me out? That’s enough to throw me off.
She’s not special. I don't want anyone to think that. But unlike most people, I actually have to look this woman in the eye for the next few weeks or months, or however long she’s assigned to me.
And those eyes are—
No. Not going there.
I shove the thought down hard. She’s wearing Venom colors that somehow make her look both flexible and—
Stop.
This is exactly the kind of distraction I don’t need. She’s here to help me not fall apart in public. That’s it. The fact that she’s attractive is irrelevant. The fact that I noticed is a problem I’m going to ignore until it goes away.
“Believe me, I’m not a fan,” she deadpans.
I frown down at my shoes. The car backs out of the drive before I can decide whether to launch myself back out and run for the house.
To my surprise, Remy sighs and adds in a softer voice, “Of sports. I’m not a fan of sports.
And hockey has never been my thing, so if I ask questions that you think should be obvious, I’m not trying to wind you up.
I’m trying to understand what happened, so that I can figure out the best way to move forward. ”
That’s new. Not what I expected from her. I glance at her again, sharper this time, like I might have missed something the first time around.
“Fix him,” Dante said. At least Remy didn’t say that she’s trying to figure out how to fix me, just my image.
I scratch the nape of my neck and shoot her a sidelong glance.
I already knew she was pretty, with high cheekbones, a button nose, and tons of freckles.
She’s a ginger, though her hair is dark enough that it might be mistaken for brown in poor lighting.
Today, it’s pulled back in a loose braid, and she’s added a touch of green to her makeup to match the jersey she’s wearing over black leggings.
It’s not just that, though. It’s the way she holds herself. She’s not waiting for permission to be here. She expects to be listened to. That kind of confidence usually comes with an attitude I don’t have the patience for.
I’m surprised by the effort. She’s actually gone out of her way to resemble a fan, rather than slapping the jersey on over whatever generic blouse she happened to have on this morning.
“Okay,” I say, though I can’t quite disguise my wariness. “Ask away.”
She twists around so that she can face me more directly. “Alright. Tell me what happened in the crease.”
Straight to it. No warm-up, no easing into it. Just drop the puck and watch what happens. I should respect that. Instead, it makes me want to shut down.
I wince and turn my head toward the window. “You saw.”
Because if I say it out loud, it stops being something I can write off as a bad moment. It becomes a choice. And I’m not sure I like what that says about me.
“I saw what happened, but I don’t understand why. From what I can tell, this incident was out of character for you.”
That might be the case from her perspective, but it’s not like she actually knows me. True, I don’t usually bring my anger to the ice, but that doesn’t mean I have it under control. “Not really,” is all I say.
“You could still walk me through it.”
I raise one shoulder, staring out the window. “It was what it was.”
There’s enough glare on the glass for me to see her reflection over my shoulder. Remy’s glaring at the back of my head.
“Fine,” she says. “I’ll do what I can, but I need you to understand that I can’t do my job if you won’t give me anything to work with. I’m not here to babysit you. I’m here to help you, which will, in fact, require some effort on your part.”
There it is. The edge. The part of her that doesn’t back down. It hits something in me that wants to push right back, even though I know she’s not wrong.
I clocked her North Shore accent during our first meeting, but it clearly gets more nasal when she’s annoyed. Which, of course, only annoys me more. Because here I am, three thousand miles from home, being pushed around by some haughty chick from the North Shore who thinks she knows better than me.
Back home, girls like Remy dated future hedge fund managers and guys whose fathers owned boats. Not angry kids from Southie with busted knuckles and eviction notices sitting on the kitchen counter.
“I’m here, aren’t I?” I say.
Remy doesn’t respond. When I check again, she’s turned away from me, back to reading some file she brought with her.
I immediately feel like an ass. I wish she’d pushed back, rather than take the high road. Now I’m sitting here, feeling like a sulky child… which is exactly how I’ve been behaving.
She doesn’t have to say anything to make her point. That’s what gets me. I’d almost prefer if she snapped back, gave me something to react to. This quiet disappointment? It sits heavier.
My late father would have been proud of how obnoxious I’m acting. My mother would not be. I should apologize, or answer the question, but the truth is, I’m not even sure where to start.
* * *
The community center where Dante’s driver lets us off is smaller than I expected.
Of course, I’m used to the Venom arena, but I’m guessing this parking lot can hold a hundred cars max.
I don’t say a word as Remy leads the way, shaking hands with volunteers and chatting with everyone who crosses our path as if we didn’t just suffer through the most awkward car ride in history.
I still don’t know what she’s expecting from me here. Smile for the cameras, shake a few hands, pretend everything’s fine. I can do that. I’ve been doing it my whole career. Doesn’t mean it’s real.
Mostly, I keep my mouth shut and watch the rink, where a bunch of kids and teens are hanging out on the ice. Some of them skate in packs, while others stay with their parents. This doesn’t appear to be a game, or the kind of ginormous, public fundraiser that Dante likes to throw.
Which is good, because even with a relatively small audience, I already feel out of place.
Remy taps me on the arm, snapping me out of my reverie. “Okay, Rourke, this is a community skating event.”
“Owen,” I interrupt. “Call me Owen.”
Remy sniffs. “I’m not sure we’re that friendly yet, actually.
” Ouch. “As I was saying, this is a community skate event. Two Sunday mornings a month, the rink lets families with children twelve and under skate for free, with rental equipment included for the kids. A lot of these families can’t afford to come here the rest of the time, much less shell out the cost of a ticket to an NHL game.
” She gives me the fakest smile I’ve ever seen.
“We’re here for a meet-and-greet. Think you can manage that? ”
Well, I guess I can’t blame her for being annoyed with me, given how I’ve been acting. “Yeah, I can handle it.” And then, because I do feel a little bad for being a sullen prick, I add, “It’s nice of the rink to do that. My family needed all the help we could get when I was that age.”
Remy’s frozen mask melts ever-so-slightly. “I’ll be watching if you need anything.” After a beat, she adds, “Have fun.” She doesn’t even sound like she’s being sarcastic.
One of the volunteers gets me a pair of skates, since I didn’t bring my own, and I make my way onto the ice.
It’s weird to be in rentals again, especially since these are kind of shitty compared to the high-end designs I get to use in the League.
I don’t have a plan, but as soon as I join the crowd, my lack of preparation proves irrelevant.
Kids notice me, and they come swarming the instant they recognize my jersey.
Brand recognition, baby. It’ll get you every time.
They didn’t watch the game. Or if they did, it doesn’t mean the same thing to them. I don’t know if that makes this easier or worse.
Three boys practically skate over themselves to get to me. I’d guess that they’re around ten, old enough that their parents are watching from the side of the rink while they chat. The smallest and fastest of them narrowly avoids skating right into me in his excitement.
“Oh, my gosh, are you Owen Rourke?” he asks.
I nod. “Sure am.”