24. Tori
The red-eye flight is man’s worst invention. Not nuclear warheads, not high-fructose corn syrup. No, the simple act of flying at night so you can have a “jump start” to the next day is the biggest crock of shit ever invented. It must have been invented by someone really evil, a true sociopath.
“You’re going to make the driver piss himself if you keep glaring at him like that.”
Spencer’s whisper in my ear makes me jolt, and I nearly take out his nose as I lift one of my fists up to defend myself. Thankfully, his well-honed reflexes kick in and he’s able to lean back away from the blow before it can land. I relax my resting bitch face as I look at him, and I find him smiling fondly. One of his hands twitches up for a moment, like he wants to lift his arm and tuck me into his side. His smile fades a little as he sits back, content with putting his hand on the leather seat, close enough to mine that our pinkies brush.
I glance at the driver through the rearview mirror and can see the beads of nervous sweat on the beta’s brow, evidence of Spencer’s observation. So, with a sigh, I turn my gaze out of the back passenger window to my left. Dawn is breaking over the Las Vegas strip, creating a weirdly liminal space. There are no crowds of tourists gawking at the spectacular hotels, no buskers or timeshare con artists with clipboards. Just a few weary locals dragging themselves home from work, and a strangely large number of joggers taking full advantage of the empty sidewalks.
We’re making our way to Park MGM, the hotel the league has blocked out for the players for the weekend. I imagine we’re going to be among the latest arrivals, as the events are starting in just a few hours, kicking off with a player and staff lunch where the “captains” of the four all-star teams are going to be announced. They’ve recently added a draft/gala to the agenda, instead of just assigning players to their respective teams. Tomorrow, we’ll be able to catch up on sleep before we have to be at practice and a shift in the fan experience for a meet-and-greet. Then it’s the skill competition, with the real all-star game the following evening after more practices.
By the time we arrive at the hotel and unload our bags, all I can think about it getting to my room, stripping out of my business clothes and heels, and passing the fuck out. But when we step up for check-in, my dreams are shattered as the front desk attendant looks up at us with a sympathetic frown.
“I’m so sorry for this, but with the event this weekend, we’re mostly booked up. I’m afraid that we’ve only got the space for the one room that’s been booked in the block,” she says, her customer service voice making me see red.
Maybe I’ve been spoiled by traveling with the Mystic for so long, and how seamless the check-in process is as the logistics team handles things. But I’m on the verge of tired, angry tears, this minor inconvenience pushing me to the edge. Spencer’s face goes a little pale as he looks at me, but then he shifts back to the hotel employee.
“That’s fine. I don’t mind sharing. We’re just really tired, so can we get the keys, please?” Spencer asks, all charm and smiles.
I have to turn around and do some breathing exercises, trying to keep my cool while Spencer finishes up. To say the least, this is not ideal. Bad planning aside, staying in the same room together flies in the face of our plan to not cause any suspicion, and we’re going to have to be extra careful so people don’t get the wrong idea. But all of that can be addressed once I’m not half-asleep on my feet. I let Spencer lead me to the elevators and through the halls until he scans the card on the door and pushes it open, holding it for me to enter first.
“Oh, you have got to be fucking kidding me,” I groan as I get my first good look at the room.
On any other day, I’m sure I would be swooning over the beautiful touches in every corner of the space. Luxurious olive-green furniture, including a cozy window seat in the living room space, a bathroom with a standing shower that might be bigger than my office back home, dark forest-green accent walls with stunning framed art. But, to my frustration, the king-sized bed is the only one in the room.
Spencer sighs as he steps in behind me, but my eyes are burning. Anxiety swirls in my gut, and I’m struggling to maintain control over my emotions. If we sleep in the same bed, we’re going to end up cuddling, or worse, and that means he’s going to smell like me, and then someone important is going to catch us. And then–
His hand closes around the back of my neck and drags me backward into his chest, his other arm banding around my torso and pinning my arms to my sides. As his fingers massage the tension away from my neck, he sways slightly, all the while letting out a long stream of air through his teeth that sounds like waves.
“You’re okay, sugar. It’s going to be okay. I’ve got you. You’re okay.”
He repeats the words over and over, the low murmur combined with his spearmint and blackberry scent bringing me down from the edge of hysteria until I’m loose and relaxed in his arms.
“That’s my girl. Now, there’s no use trying to fix this now. We’re tired and not thinking straight. Let’s get a few hours of sleep and push through this dinner thing tonight. We can figure it out tomorrow, okay?” His breath brushes my cheek as he speaks into my ear.
I nod, my lower lip trembling as I struggle to absorb his gentle attention. He’s letting me be vulnerable, and there’s no judgment. He’s not asking me to explain, because he just... knows. That fills my chest with warmth. He’s right. We need to get back to center before we try to fix anything.
Taking turns in the bathroom, we change into sleep clothes before we lower the blackout blinds and climb into bed. Spencer waits for me to pick a side before he joins me, and he doesn’t waste time before he drags me back into him to spoon. He’s warm—not as warm as Eli, but I doubt anything besides an open flame would be, and I’m not about to cuddle a campfire—and his arms are so familiar. It’s easy to let my eyes slide closed, and drift off, leaving my worries at the door. For now.
I'm more composed after our nap, and even better after eating a room service lunch. We might have splurged, but at this point, the league owes me for allowing my room to get double booked. Soon enough, it’s time to get ready and head over to the arena for the night’s activities.
Spencer looks incredible in his crisp suit, the gold fleur-de-lis cufflinks catching the light perfectly. His tie is a dark eggplant, an unintentional match to the cocktail dress I’d picked out. The soft and stretchy velvet clings to my curves, the rouching on the front hiding my tummy well and the half sleeves giving me some protection against the chill of the dry January air. Our walk is blessedly short, and once I grab our badges, we’re allowed out onto the floor of the arena. There’s a chill underfoot, the ice merely covered up for the event.
The space is filled with other players from across all thirty-six teams, and members of their support staff. Between one and three players were picked to participate, so it’s quite crowded on the floor, not to mention difficult to navigate without being stopped to talk and catch up. Spencer disappears from my side at one point, though I’m not surprised. I’ve been in this conversation with the event manager for the league for far too long, mostly because he works with my dad on occasion and wants to tell me every little anecdote.
When I’m finally able to slip away, I glance around, trying to spot his head of curly dark hair. It’s normally easy, as he’s taller than the average person. But in a room full of hockey players, I’m lucky if I can see over anyone’s head, let alone find someone in the crowd. We aren’t assigned to sit together for the draft, so I just resign myself to finding him once everyone’s seated and then linking up again on our way back to the hotel.
I manage to find my way to the open bar, grabbing myself a gin martini as I linger around the edges of the room, trying to take everything in. The stands are filling up, though the first dozen or so rows of the lower bowl sections are blocked off, probably to give the players privacy. The noise level increases with every passing minute, the anticipation building.
“Surprised you’d show your face at something like this,” a voice sneers from beside me, making me jump.
I take a step away as I look up into the acne-scarred face of Tristan King. His hair is a wild tangle of tight curls, the color more blond than I remember, but I wouldn’t put it past the vain bastard to get highlights. Whatever product he’s put on his face for the cameras has creased under his eyes, but I don’t bother telling him. After the shit he pulled the last time we played him, I hope some eagle-eyed fan clocks it and turns it into a meme. Maybe I’d do it for them, and highlight how fucked up his teeth look ever since he had to get implants to replace the ones Oli knocked out. He’d deserve it for all the misogynistic and disgusting things he said about me, and plenty of other women, I’m sure.
“Funny. I was just thinking the same thing about you. Looks like you had to leave your cronies back in San Fran,” I comment, taking another sip of my drink.
He lets out a low growl, but I look away, not intimidated in the slightest. Tristan is a coward at heart and wouldn’t dare try anything if he knew he couldn’t get away with it. With this many witnesses, the worst he could do is trade barbs, and I have plenty of practice deflecting those and turning them back around.
“Did Spencey leave you to chase after someone who will actually put out?” Tristan asks, a little mocking edge to his voice.
I roll my eyes but don’t deign to answer. Wherever Spencer is, I’m sure it’s not with another girl. Not after the way he acted over Christmas and ever since. In my silence, King snickers and raises a hand to point into the crowd.
“Seems like he’s caught a good one. What do you think, Strauss? Think he’s got enough game to reel her in? Or should I go over and put her out of her misery and rescue her from his company?”
I follow his line of sight, hardly hearing the words as the crowd parts and I see Spencer for the first time since we got separated. He’s not far from us, standing with a stick-thin brunette with a smile like a spotlight. Her badge says she’s with the press, but my brain doesn’t accept that. They’re standing too close, and he’s laughing too hard at whatever she’s saying. He’s leaning down with a smile, a real smile, not the fake one he plasters across his handsome face when he interacts with the media back home. The longer I watch them, the harder it becomes to look away. My stomach drops as she touches his arm, laughing and showing those bright white teeth.
“Good talking with you, Vic. Have fun this weekend. I’ll try not to kick Black’s ass too hard,” Tristan says as an announcement rings out, calling everyone to their seats.
I’m numb from head to toe as I find a seat in the staff section, my eyes following the young journalist the entire time. Spencer isn’t near us, sitting with some fellow U of M alumni on the opposite side of the floor. The draft is a blur, though I note when Spencer and Tristan get drafted on different teams, which is for the best, all things considered. But I can’t contain my disgusted sniff when the journalist cheers a little too loudly when Spencer gets picked sixth overall.
My patience and composure end once we’re dismissed from the event. As I storm off and leave Spencer to make his own way back, my chest is tight and my eyes burn with the tears I’m holding back. And no matter how hard I try, all I can see whenever I close my eyes is Little Miss Megawatt Smile practically sprinting toward Spencer.