Chapter Thirteen
Sadie
Leo: Hey, I know we don’t text, but there’s something you might need to know. If you’re still trying to be a super spy, that is.
Sadie: I am…
Leo: Nic and Callum are starting a book club.
Sadie: Are you joining?
Leo: Are you joking?
Sadie: See you if you can get the other guys on board too! And find out what book they’re reading.
Leo: Still can’t tell if you’re joking. Books are kind of personal.
Leo: …you really want me to?
Sadie: I really, really do. And I want you to tell me how it goes.
Leo: So I guess texting is a thing we do.
Sadie: I guess it is.
“The sky is raining its face off,” Isla says as the downpour intensifies before our eyes.
Fortunately, Maine’s Children’s Hospital has a very large overhang to cover the drop-off slash valet area, so we’re spared from it as we wait for the guys who signed up to spread holiday cheer.
“Yeah, turns out November rain is more than just a banger of a song.” I tie my maroon coat tighter to ward off some of the frigid wind.
The dress code Isla gave us was ‘holiday cheerful’—the festive cousin of ‘business casual’—and I’ve got colorful earrings and a Christmas sweater dress underneath my cold-weather gear.
“I’m glad we got dropped off when we did. ”
“The Weather Channel did promise a wintery mix,” she informs me. Her coat is puffy, black, and probably more comfortable than mine. “I’m holding out hope this turns into snow. I’d love my very first white Thanksgiving.”
“I bet you don’t get a lot of those back in New Orleans.”
“Nope. Though one time we got a hurricane on Thanksgiving. We didn’t get to eat turkey, but my parents did let me and my sister drink a glass of their sink chard, which felt pretty ceremonial.”
“Do I dare ask what sink chard is?”
“You fill the sink with ice and stick a bottle of chardonnay in there. Voilà: sink chard. There were Gatorades and Capri Suns, too, but that wasn’t as fun.
” She sighs fondly at the memory. “Wine was the damn coolest to sixteen-year-old me. My sister Clara—she’s a year younger than me—got tipsy off like, three sips, and my parents had to shut it down. ”
“Twenty-nine-year-old me also thinks wine is the damn coolest, to be fair.”
“Air cheers to that?”
We pretend to clink glasses as a large black airport-style shuttle pulls up about fifteen feet from us.
Fury players climb out of the vehicle one by one, each festively dressed in their own way.
Callum in a red sport coat, tight khakis a shade lighter than his loafers, and a black shirt.
Nic in a sweater that proclaims itself an Ugly Pugly Christmas Sweater—complete with Fair Isle pattern and a hideously charming embroidered pug.
Gabriel in a white cable-knit sweater and a Fury beanie.
Lachlan and Henri in similar red thermal shirts and slacks.
I hate that my first thought is I hope Lachlan behaves himself. He’s the king of making out-of-pocket comments at the worst time. I’ve started referring to him as Ivan Junior in my own head, which would also upset Ivan, who happens to hate him.
My gaze snags on the last person out of the vehicle.
Leo, in a plaid button-up and dark jeans that fit him perfectly, steps up on the curb with a Santa hat in place on his head. My gaze lingers on his hands as he reaches up to adjust it.
One month ago, those hands were on me. Those fingers touched my hip, my neck.
Every time I tell myself not to think about what happened—and didn’t happen—in that hot tub, I end up thinking about it even harder, which frustrates me to no end.
Thoughts of him don’t discriminate for time or place.
They sneak in while I’m in the shower, or trying to fall asleep, or on an anti-lust run, or doing a get-your-head-out-of-the-gutter grocery shop.
Mercifully, the only place I can keep my head on straight is at the rink. When we’re at work, player Leo remains player Leo. Captain Leo still does his job, and I do mine.
But the guy who drank coffee with me and sat across from me at the diner and guarded my front yard and made my heart nearly stop in the hot tub? That Leo?
He’s a problem.
A big one.
I lean in toward Isla, not that the men could hear from this distance and with the loud storm. “McLaren signed up for this event?”
“Yes. I asked anyone who was staying in town for the holiday to consider coming. He was one of the first.”
That’s the part that surprises me. I figured he’d be back in California by now, especially considering he has a family—young siblings and parents who are still married—to sit down with.
For me, it was an easy decision to stay here for the holiday. In addition to being way too busy to travel right now, I never enjoy choosing between my dad’s new family or my mom’s new family, so I tend to stay put for the holidays and let them video chat with me when it’s convenient for them.
Our security guards, Dane and Blake, exit the front of the vehicle.
They remain close but largely silent, shadows who prefer to stay out of the way.
Fury lore has it that Dane once tackled someone who laid a rather aggressive hand on Ivan at a press event.
Ivan’s fans and haters alike are enthusiastic.
“All right, team!” Isla waves them over, since we’re already standing by the whooshing automatic doors. “Let’s check in at the front. They’ll have assignments for us. This is a big deal to them, so be sure to turn on the kindness and charm.”
Callum elbows Leo. “It’s fine, mate. I’ll lend you some of mine.”
“Thanks, dick.”
“Sorry, you can’t borrow that.”
“Right. You don’t have much to spare.”
Nic cackles. “Nice one, McLaren.”
Leo’s mouth tics up at the corners.
The guys didn’t rib on him much at first. Lately, Callum and Nic have been folding Leo into the mix a little more. It makes Leo seem younger when he lets it happen—less world-weary.
Dare I say my grumpy defender is actually making friends?
We step inside the decorated atrium. A massive Christmas tree streamed with tinsel stands behind the check-in desk, reaching up toward the domed roof.
Gold and silver doves decorate the fir branches at even intervals, glittering against strands of lights.
A sled filled with wrapped gifts is parked to our left.
The guys’ chatter dies down immediately, which is to be expected. Hospitals are sobering environments, no matter how nicely appointed.
I know from firsthand experience.
“Evening, folks,” greets the woman at the front desk whose nametag reads Olive. Her tone holds a guarded sort of warmth. She scans the group and brightens when she reaches Leo. “Oh hey, Leo, good to see you again.”
He nods tightly. “You as well.”
A pang of disappointment lodges itself in my stomach, which I shove down real deep. I should’ve assumed he was dating. It’s been one month, almost to the day, since nothing happened in that hot tub.
One month when he could’ve done a heck of a lot more than not kiss other women.
Damn it all. Now I’m thinking about it again. I’d never been more turned on in my entire life. I was sick with it. A single brush of his knuckle would’ve finished me. One stroke of his tongue against my nipple would’ve made me see stars. Hell, a deep and dirty kiss might’ve—
Enough. I have to stop thinking about it.
And I will. There is no one better equipped for the Sisyphean task of blocking unwanted thoughts than a former athlete.
Isla, briefly thrown by front desk Olive’s familiarity with Leo, extends a curt hand across the desk. “Isla Keane with the Fury.” She gestures pleasantly at the men standing beside her. “These guys. We spoke on the phone?”
“Right, of course. We’ve been looking forward to this for some time. If you all wouldn’t mind showing your IDs so I can match them to your wrist bracelets, our volunteer Connor here will get you all taken back to the rooms that welcome visitors.”
Connor, a freckled teenage boy I’d put at about sixteen, who’s probably trying to score some hours for graduation or college applications, stands beside her with his mouth hanging wide open. He looks positively starstruck as his gaze hops from player to player.
He’s not the only one. Beleaguered visitors and passing foot traffic slow to a near stop to catch a longer look. A few nurses materialize, clearly in a hurry but afraid to miss out. The attendant manning the gift shop even sticks his head out.
It’s easy to forget what these guys mean to people when you’re around them every day, but get them into a public place and it’s abundantly clear.
Nic and Callum engage the onlookers, offering photos to the people who think they’re being sneaky with their phones. Those two are more overtly social than the rest of the group, especially compared to Leo—no surprise there.
But despite Leo’s reservedness, everyone wants a photo of him, including a very elderly man who claims to be collecting it for his wife.
I can’t bring myself to look away as Leo shakes the guy’s hand, holding it for a long while as though the moment means something.
Probably because he’s aware of how much it means to the man.
While the other guys move through the group taking more photos, Leo continues his conversation, leaning in as if to hear better over the noise.
“I’m glad he’s better with fans than he is with the press.”
Isla’s voice startles me into motion. I move the hair off my neck. “Hmm?”
“I got him an interview with Sports Monthly last week. I sat in and listened since they interviewed him at the Fury Dome in that lobby area, and what’s life without a little eavesdropping?
Anyway, I think he’s allergic to full sentences.
Which is so funny, considering his dad is the chattiest commentator in hockey.
They were like ‘Tell us the secret to a next-level workout, Leo’ and he was like ‘weights.’”
“He’s not one to mince his words,” I concede.
“Don’t worry, he had a few extra to spare for the team. And for you. I think you’ve got a fan in him, to be honest.”