20
Nash
Part of the team had decided to go out for dinner. We were in Los Angeles, and they’d picked some hip restaurant that took up the entire top floor of a downtown high-rise.
Mitchell and I arrived together, just behind Bryce and Larsson, and sure enough, the media had somehow caught wind of our plans because there were already a few waiting for us on the sidewalk with their cameras ready.
“Here we go again,” Mitch muttered under his breath, his tone dripping with sarcasm.
“I guess last night’s answers weren’t enough,” I commented in the same sarcastic tone.
They weren’t here for the team. They were here for me—again.
It had been four days since someone online had connected the dots, confirming that the girl in the photos was Kennedy Miller, my childhood best friend turned, well . . . everything. And ever since then, the gossip sites had gone feral.
They dug up old photos, old interviews, anything they could twist into a dramatic storyline. The speculation was out of control with wild theories about our past, our present, our future. Suddenly, everyone had opinions about us. About her. About what we’d been. What we were. What we should be.
And as if things weren’t bad enough, my new Armani cologne ad had dropped that morning, plastering my face across social media like a goddamn billboard.
Shirt unbuttoned, smirk on display, “Reed Intensity” in bold across the bottom.
Kennedy had smiled, calling it my signature panty-dropping smirk, but I’d seen the exhaustion behind her eyes.
And it wasn’t just from working ridiculous hours.
The public’s infatuation with us was getting to her.
The timing really couldn’t have been worse. It poured gasoline on the already out-of-control attention.
The gossip accounts were the worst—zooming in on grainy shots of Kennedy’s face under my baseball cap like they’d cracked some national secret.
Dragging up old stories about my so-called playboy behavior, lists of women I’d supposedly dated.
Predicting a breakup. Hunting for tension. Waiting for one of us to slip.
So yeah—they were here for me.
“You want me to go ahead? Maybe I can distract them,” Mitchell offered, glancing over at me. He knew as well as I did that the cameras were pointed squarely in my direction, waiting for a comment or reaction. Anything they could spin into clicks.
Some of the guys were jealous over the attention I’d been getting ever since the media found out who Kennedy was, but not Mitch. He didn’t enjoy it any more than Kennedy did. He was, however, more used to it than she was, and he knew how to deal with it.
“Nah, it’s fine,” I said, clapping Mitch on the shoulder to show I appreciated the offer. “We can walk in together. I’m not sticking around to discuss my love life.”
Mitch snorted.
Up ahead, the reporters had stopped Bryce and Larsson, but the second Mitch and I approached the building entrance, a reporter with bright-red lipstick zeroed in on us. She wasted no time signaling her cameraman to shift focus, leaving Bryce and Larsson behind.
“How are you handling all the rumors about your girlfriend?” she called out, thrusting the microphone in my face.
“No comment,” I said firmly, picking up the pace, but that didn’t stop her. She hurried alongside me, microphone still aimed at my face.
“Will you confirm if you know Miss Miller?”
My jaw clenched.
“Is it true you grew up next door to each other? Were you high school sweethearts?”
I reached the front door and yanked it open harder than necessary, my temper starting to flare.
“Whoa, easy there, buddy!” the security guard inside the lobby called out as I stepped in.
“Sorry, man,” I muttered, turning to wait for Mitch.
“Oh damn, sorry, Mr. Reed,” the guard stammered when he realized who I was. “I didn’t recognize you.”
“It’s all good. My fault.”
I gave him a nod and turned back toward the door, waiting for Mitch.
I never understood why people felt the need to apologize to me when I was the one in the wrong.
It shouldn’t matter if I were a pro athlete, a politician, or a beauty queen—if I messed up, I messed up.
My parents had drilled that into me early: take responsibility, own your mistakes. Fame didn’t change that.
I watched as the reporter made one last attempt to chase after Mitch.
“When did they start dating?” the reporter asked, not giving up. “Was it when Kennedy Miller moved to New York?”
“I hope you folks have a pleasant evening,” Mitch said politely, slipping inside.
That’s when I realized—he’d deliberately slowed down when I bolted ahead, taking the brunt of the attention so I didn’t have to.
“Thanks, man,” I said gratefully.
Mitch grinned, clapping a big hand on my shoulder as we headed for the elevators.
Bryce held the door open for us. “Are they asking you about your hot little brunet?” he asked, a knowing smirk on his face.
I shot him a glare, but Mitchell chuckled beside me.
“You know how they are,” Bryce continued, clearly unfazed by my annoyance. “They’ll give up eventually. Don’t sweat it. Soon enough, some rock star will piss in public or an actor will OD and you’ll be off their radar. They’ll move on to something juicier.”
I wasn’t sure if Bryce’s version of reassurance actually helped, but I gave a small nod anyway.
In the past, if I was seen with someone, it might get a mention in a tabloid or two, but that was usually the end of it. Now, the speculation about the Armani campaign, my game, and my love life were all everyone seemed to care about.
As soon as we stepped off the elevator, we were greeted by the hostess.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” she said with a smile. She was tall and beautiful, with long blond hair pulled back into a sleek ponytail, her fitted black dress leaving little to the imagination. She was exactly the type I would’ve tried to hit up for the night before Kennedy.
Now, I just followed my teammates, amused as they openly checked her out. I understood the appeal—her long legs, the sway of her hips, the practiced way she let her eyes linger—but I wasn’t interested. Not even close.
All I wanted was Kennedy. Her petite but curvy body, her radiant smile, that silky dark hair, and those blue eyes that could undo me with a single look. I wanted all of her—especially naked, wrapped around me, whispering my name.
Fuck. My jeans suddenly felt too tight, and it had nothing to do with the hostess’s lingering smile as she gestured toward the bar. It was all Kennedy. The thought of seeing her in a couple of days had my body reacting. I shoved my hand in my pocket to hide it and forced my focus elsewhere.
The restaurant was owned by a celebrity chef whose name I’d already forgotten. The space was cool, though. Floor-to-ceiling windows wrapped around the entire room, offering incredible views of the downtown area with its high-rises and mountains in the background.
It had been designed so the kitchen, bar, and restrooms were near the elevators in the middle of the room, leaving the remaining space wide open so diners could enjoy the panoramic view.
Our table was set up behind the bar, with a perfect view of the harbor.
Oversized potted plants served as a divider, making it clear that this was the VIP section.
“Hey,” Josh called out as we reached the bar. Six of our guys were already spread along one side, their glasses full of mocktails instead of beer. The bartender didn’t look thrilled—probably realizing his night wasn’t going to end with fat tips from drunk athletes. Not with a game tomorrow.
“What are you drinking, Sampson?” Bryce asked, eyeing his glass. “Club soda?”
“Yeah, club and lime.” Josh chuckled. “Gordy’s got club and orange, and Sarjenko’s nursing a Sprite.”
“What do you want, Nash?” Mitchell asked, turning toward me.
“Just water,” I replied, not in the mood for anything else.
“Straight up?” Mitchell joked with a grin, trying to lighten the mood.
I flipped him off, which only made him laugh harder as he turned to order.
Dinner passed without much excitement. The food was good, although a bit too over the top for my taste.
When I order a steak, I expect it to be bigger than a puck and come with mashed potatoes and vegetables, not some artsy drizzle of sauce and mashed potatoes shaped like a tiny dollop of whipped cream.
But whatever—it still tasted good even though I had to order two.
The staff had been great about keeping us tucked away from the rest of the crowd, but once the checks were paid and we made for the exit, a small group was waiting.
“Excuse me, Mr. Reed,” a woman’s voice called out, and I felt a light tug on my sweater. I turned to see a petite woman with dark, curly hair waving a piece of paper. “Would you mind signing this? It’s for my son—he’s a huge hockey fan, and you’re his favorite player.”
“Sure.”
I took her pen and signed my name across what looked like a receipt.
It didn’t take long before more people appeared, holding out scraps of paper and napkins for autographs.
I signed a few more, posed for a couple of photos, then excused myself, knowing a few of them might’ve actually cared about hockey but most were just into the drama that currently surrounded my life.
“And you wonder why Kennedy is stressed about the media,” Mitchell commented when we stepped into the elevator, confirming everything I’d just been thinking. “Seriously, Nash, I think people are more desperate to get to you now than ever.”
“Yeah, inside the fucking restaurant.” Bryce snorted, shaking his head. “Are they seriously that interested just because you’re finally dating someone?”
At least I wasn’t the only one who thought it was insane.
Back in the hotel room, I took a quick shower before flopping onto the bed with my phone.
I wasn’t surprised to see Mitch already stretched out on the other bed.
He’d showered and changed in his room, but we always hung out for a couple of hours when we were on the road.
His eyes were glued to his iPad. My phone buzzed with a message from Bryce: Turn on Channel 5.
I grabbed the remote and flicked on the TV, only to see my face splashed across the screen, followed by footage of us from the restaurant.
The images shifted to shots of me posing with women, a few of them recognizable from the autographs I’d signed earlier.
But then more pictures flashed up—ones I knew damn well weren’t from tonight.
“What’s going on?” Mitch asked, lowering his iPad and staring at the screen.
“I have no idea,” I muttered. “They were showing photos from tonight, but half those women weren’t even there.”
Mitch sat up straighter, propping himself on a pillow, his focus narrowing on the TV. “Turn it up.”
I did.
“We’re here tonight with Josh Sampson from the New York Empires,” the reporter said as the camera zoomed in on Josh. “You just left a dinner with the team, is that correct?”
“Yes, it is,” Josh replied, looking amused but a little guarded.
“It’s our understanding that Nash Reed was among the guests.” The reporter edged closer, microphone practically in his face.
I bit back a groan while Mitch chuckled. “Damn, they’re relentless.”
“Yes,” Josh confirmed, though his expression had already started to shift.
“What do you think about his relationship with Kennedy Miller?” The question seemed to catch Josh off guard.
“Uh, they’re friends,” he answered, sounding noncommittal.
“Do you think she’s the girl who’ll make him settle down?” the reporter pressed, clearly fishing for a headline.
Josh gave a strained chuckle, shifting from one foot to the other. “I mean . . . I don’t know. That’s between them.”
“So you don’t think they’re romantically involved?” the reporter pushed, eyebrows raised.
Josh shrugged, clearly uncomfortable now. “If they are, that’s their business. Nash doesn’t exactly share his personal life with the locker room.”
My frown relaxed a bit. This wasn’t going too badly.
“You’ve been seen out with her as well. Are you also only friends with her?” the reporter asked, her tone laced with subtle mockery as she emphasized the word friends.
“Uh . . . yes,” Josh stammered, and I cursed under my breath, recognizing where this was heading. She was setting it up to make it look like Kennedy got around.
The reporter hummed thoughtfully.
“Fuck,” I growled, standing up, my hands already balled into fists.
“Nash,” Mitch warned, holding out a hand to stop me. “Don’t feed into this.”
“They’re making it sound like Kennedy’s sleeping around, and that I’m just screwing around with her,” I snapped, fury rising in my chest.
Mitch swung his legs off the bed and pushed me firmly back down onto mine.
“I know,” he said. “I watched the same thing you did.”
“What the hell, man,” I growled.
“Just let it go, Nash,” my best friend urged. “Turn the TV off. It’s not worth it. You know that. Josh is just jealous, and the media’s trying to stir the pot. You’re buying right into it. Don’t let them get to you.”
“I don’t like what they’re doing,” I muttered, though I did turn off the TV with a flick of the remote.
“I get it, man. But this is just them trying to whip up drama. Kennedy loves you. That’s what matters.”
He was right. I did know that.
The room went quiet as we both sat there on the beds for a moment, the tension still simmering but starting to cool.
“Why don’t you call Kennedy?” Mitch suggested, breaking the silence. “If anyone’s going to make you feel better, it’s her.”
He was right again. So I did. I FaceTimed Kennedy, telling her I missed her and loved her, not caring one bit that Mitch was sprawled out on the bed next to me, grinning like an idiot, listening to every word I said.