Chapter 1
TEDDY
Three days earlier
The overpowering scent of cheap perfume on the linen sheets is the only reminder of the woman from last night.
I can’t, for the life of me, remember her name.
Something with a J or maybe an A? She was pretty, though.
Even if she laughed obnoxiously at my half-assed jokes and acted as though we were more than a random hookup.
She’s gone—no surprise there—and I’m unsure if I’m relieved or disappointed.
Not because I want a repeat performance.
No. I’m disappointed in myself. Again. Another party, another woman.
Another night trying to forget a life I chose, but no longer recognize.
At least I didn’t sleep with her. Not after she passed out within ten minutes of us arriving at my place.
I tucked her in and laid on top of the covers instead, listening to her snoring loudly for hours.
Running a hand through my short hair, I squint against the early afternoon light filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows of my Manhattan loft. The entire place reeks of poor decisions with a side of takeout. Oh yeah, we stopped for tacos on our way here.
Thankfully, I’m not hungover, because I didn’t have a single drop of alcohol last night.
Even if the tabloids say otherwise. The staged photos tell a much more scandalous story—Teddy Seaborn, a disgrace to the Seaborn name, stumbles out of a trendy rooftop bar with a beautiful model glued to him, an unfinished whiskey glass in his hand.
In reality, it was ginger ale, but they won’t care.
Bad press is better than no press. Nothing pisses off Father Dearest more than seeing his pristine name trend for all the wrong reasons.
I’ve always been masterful at disappointing my parents. If it was a sport, I would have a display case full of gold medals. It’s almost fun. Almost. Until the noise fades and I’m left with my intrusive thoughts.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand, reminding me that I don’t have the luxury of ignoring the outside world much longer.
It’s probably my close friend and agent, Emerson Merryweather, suggesting another round of last-minute damage control.
I disregard the buzzing for now. Instead, I stretch and crack my stiff neck, letting out a sigh that feels weighty for someone with my life.
Yeah, I know how that sounds. Poor little rich boy. Cue the tiny violins.
To be honest, the routine of pissing off my parents is getting old.
I turned thirty-one this past spring, so it’s been ongoing for years.
The parties, the women, and the carefully curated recklessness are all part of my grand facade.
One public outing a month during the hockey season, more during the off-season.
Champagne and mayhem in place of legacy and traditions. Always on schedule.
My reputation used to be a badge of honor. These days, it’s a cheap polyester costume that no longer fits. Tight in all the wrong places, itchy at the seams.
Across the City, my name is already blasted on gossip sites, including the web version of Paparazzi Playground, the largest tabloid in the country.
Somewhere in Newport, my father is reading said publication and grinding his teeth, while his secretary puts together a slideshow of my latest fuckups and blows him under the desk.
For now, it’s enough. Not good or satisfying, but enough.
It’s my revengeful payback for years my parents berated me and made me think I was worth nothing.
Because if I’m anything, it’s petty as fuck.
I won’t give my goddamn father the satisfaction of thinking he fixed my behavior by making me give up the questionable extracurricular activities.
Not while he’s keeping tabs on me. Not even if it's hurting me more than him.
When my phone rings for the fifth time in twenty minutes, I can’t ignore it any longer. I swipe to answer and stare blankly at the skyline as I brace for the impact of the incoming conversation.
“Tell me you at least remember her name,” Em, my agent, greets me in a familiar clipped tone. It’s come from too many years in one of the best private schools on the East Coast and many more spent cleaning up my messes.
“Good morning, my sweet Emerson,” I mutter, dragging a palm along my scalp. “To answer your question: no, I don’t remember her name. I honestly didn’t care enough to memorize it.”
A heavy pause follows the dickish statement.
I imagine her standing in her polished Midtown office, wearing a colorful designer suit that she makes look lethal.
Her dark curly hair is probably pulled back in a ponytail, and she’s most likely tapping a pen on her planner, trying her best not to throw it.
We’ve known each other since we were kids, growing up together in Hell that taught Latin before algebra and served wine at formal dinners when we were in high school. Her parents are as wealthy as mine, with old money and the expectations that come with it.
“You realize I had to text your father’s assistant to preemptively spin this, right?” she bites out the question. “She answered with a thumbs-up emoji. A thumbs-up, Teddy. Do you know how many PR alarms a thumbs-up from her sets off?”
I pinch the bridge of my pierced nose. “Way too many.”
“So tell me once again why I shouldn’t care about your antics and what you did last night?”
“The woman from last night passed out shortly after we got to mine,” I share, trying to convince us both that the situation isn’t dire. “I didn’t touch her.”
“I suppose I should congratulate you on such gentlemanly behavior,” she states matter-of-factly, voice as dry as my favorite gin. “Unfortunately, Page Six doesn’t award gold stars for chivalry.”
“It was ginger ale,” I offer weakly, even though we both know it truly doesn’t matter. “I haven’t had alcohol since the off-season.”
“All they care about is that it wasn’t water. Hell, even if it was, they would claim it was vodka.”
“Point taken.” I stare down at the polished hardwood, tracing the patterns with my gaze. “Why do you still put up with me?”
“Because we survived AP Chem, your first broken nose, and the time they caught us sneaking out during Founder’s Weekend, and you didn’t rat me out,” she replies without hesitation.
“Not to mention we were debate partners, and you always let me have the last word, even when you had something smarter to say. And the minute I graduated from business school at Cornell and wrapped up my sports management minor, you were waiting outside my place with a draft contract, telling me you wanted me to be your agent. You trusted me when I had zero experience. You were my first client.”
“You sound sentimental, Merryweather,” I tease. “Damn, we were such little shits.”
“You were,” she corrects. “But you were also the one who made me feel less alone. You always knew how to make me laugh. That’s why we’re still friends, and I consider you an annoying brother most of the time.”
My heart aches with the distant memory of how we grew up—caged birds with our wings clipped, expected to obey without question.
Fuck, I have zero energy to deal with deep emotions this early in the day.
Lucky me, Em doesn’t rush to fill the silence.
She lets it stretch, as if she knows I need the space to sit with the words spoken.
A minute later, her voice comes through. “I don’t get why the second you start to feel sorry for yourself, you shut down. Thinking you don’t deserve the same grace as everyone else.”
“It’s easier said than done.”
“For who, exactly? You drink ginger ale and sleep on top of the covers, hoping it earns you points with the universe. Newsflash: it won’t.”
Her words make me flinch. “You can fix these things as my agent, no?”
“Teddy, please, don’t start with me,” she huffs, clearly annoyed. “Listen, there’s a charity thing next week to raise money to give underprivileged children the opportunity to play organized sports. You’re going without a date. Don’t even try to do anything stupid or I swear to God.”
I drop onto the bed, the mattress groaning in protest beneath me. “I’m not in a shake-hands-and-smile mood right now.”
“Too bad. We’re entering your sad golden retriever trying to be taken seriously era. You need goodwill by truckloads.”
Letting out a dry laugh, I ask, “Do I get a cookie if I behave?”
“You’ll get fewer headlines about your imaginary drinking problem, bettering your chances at salvaging what’s left of your tarnished image. Which, I should remind you, is a sought-after brand making you a lot of money outside hockey, whether you accept it or not.”
“You think I’m a lost cause?” I say jokingly, though there’s a little too much honesty tucked in the question.
“No,” she answers immediately. “Yet, you’re trying hard to become one.”
“I’m just so damn tired, Em. I’m not sure how much longer I can handle my parents’ bullshit.”
“Trust me, I know firsthand. There’s no point in burning everything down around you to prove a point, though.”
“I’m working on being better…ish.”
“I know that, too.” She clears her throat. “Remember to wear something decent next week. And Teddy?”
“Yeah?”
“Next time, try sleeping alone after a night out for a change.”
I huff a small, almost sincere laugh. “You always were the bossy one.”
“Damn right. Don't you forget it.”
Late November in Central Park means the trees are mostly bare, their last few leaves clinging stubbornly to the branches.
The grass has dulled, and the fountains are shut off for the season.
Tourists are fewer between the holidays, couples and dog walkers filling the paths.
It’s in the low fifties, yet the weather feels colder, wind biting enough to cut through multiple layers.