Instigator (Boston Grizzlies Hockey Club #5)

Chapter 1

one

. . .

Ceci

The back room of the bookstore is loud in the way only book clubs can be—half drunken laughter, half passionate arguments over fictional men who desperately need therapy.

I weave between mismatched folding chairs and stacks of discounted hardcovers, balancing a bottle of gin in one hand and my dignity in the other.

Every third Thursday is the highlight of my month. Mostly because these people are mine. My loud, chaotic, aggressively affectionate friends.

Unfortunately, they’re also all in love.

Every single one of them paired off over the last few years, while I somehow became the human equivalent of the last seat in a game of musical chairs. Still standing. Still smiling about it. Pretending I don’t notice everyone else already has someone to go home to.

And I do pretend.

I joke that I’m single by choice. That dating sounds exhausting. That I like my freedom too much to share it with another person.

But sometimes, late at night, I want what they have so badly it feels like a physical ache. The problem is that nobody looks at a forty-three-year-old divorced tech billionaire and sees romance.

They see money.

Sometimes they see sex.

Mostly, they see an opportunity. And I’m not about to let myself get swindled again.

“Ceci,” Bex cries out as I enter the raised platform at the back of the store. “I just had the most epically brilliant idea.”

“Oh?” I set the gin on the counter, pour myself a full plastic cup with a splash of tonic water, and then help myself to a s’mores bar treat before turning back to her. “Is it work related?”

Her face falls. “Well, yes.”

Fighting back a laugh, I pat her shoulder. “Tell me about it tomorrow.”

Dr. Rebecca Whitney has a brilliant mind.

I believe in her potential so much I encouraged the Boston Grizzlies’ charitable foundation to fund a research project so we can create a more protective helmet and prevent concussions.

Last season, she worked with the hockey team as their concussion spotter, and her brother and fiancé are both hockey players, so she has a vested interest in the subject.

And I’ve been on the foundation’s board for several years, so it was easy to pull some strings and get this project started.

But she struggles to leave work at work. I’m the same way, and I’ve had to consciously force myself to stick to my designated eight hours a day.

“You got it, boss,” she says, recovering with a grin.

Hiding a grimace in my red plastic cup, I take a deep gulp of my mostly gin, very little tonic. I hate when she calls me “boss” or reminds me I’m essentially in charge of her career. Even though the foundation calls the shots, it’s my pet project. My ass is on the line if she can’t deliver.

And I can’t fucking get the code right.

I’ve been aimless since I sold my company to a hedge fund conglomerate nine years ago. Nothing I’ve done since means anything in the grand scheme of things. None of the projects I’ve worked on have recouped their costs. And most importantly, nothing has come close to fulfilling me.

I fucking hate this.

I’ve been go, go, go since I was in high school, through undergrad and my master’s, and then with the business.

If I hadn’t gotten that first round of funding, I’d have gone for a PhD.

Luckily, the company took off, and now… I have nothing to prove.

I don’t need the stodgy professors to validate me. My bank account does that.

But it doesn’t fulfill me. At this rate, I don’t think anything will.

Like the fearless leader she is, Sadie claps her hands together. “Let’s get the party

started!”

A cheer goes up throughout the room. Unlike a typical book club, where everyone reads the same book each month, ours is a celebration of our love of reading—specifically romance.

We talk about what we’re reading, what we like and dislike, and share recommendations.

The alcohol flows freely, there are plenty of snacks, and all in all, it’s a pretty nice way to spend an evening.

The group is made up of a fun, slightly chaotic, definitely inappropriate group of the best people I’ve ever met.

Most of us are neurodivergent in some way—hence our nickname, the Neurospicy Book Club—but neurotypical people are welcome to join us.

We don’t discriminate. We even have two male and three nonbinary members.

I had no idea I have ADHD until Sadie asked me what meds I was on and if I needed them adjusted.

She has the condition herself, so my diagnosis was obvious to her—as well as how much I was struggling.

At her encouraging, I pursued treatment, and now we regularly trade medication side effect miseries.

The late-diagnosis journey has been interesting, but I finally have the support I needed growing up.

The chaos of the bookstore—all the voices talking over each other, side conversations, and the general buzz of being surrounded by people I love—goes a long way to soothe that restless itch deep inside my soul. If only I could get this high more than once a month.

But all too soon, my friends start leaving, going home to their partners and spouses. Even Bex, my last holdout, has someone waiting for her at home.

Inevitably, when Sadie none too subtly kicks me out, I head home. For half a second, I consider going to my favorite bar on Dalton Street, but after three strong drinks, I don’t need any more. Not tonight. Not with the mood I’m in.

The rideshare drops me off at my townhouse in Back Bay, and I cross the threshold into the arms of nothing.

Every room dark. Quiet. Empty. After the chaos earlier, the silence echoes in my head like a tin drum, beating louder and louder.

I turn on every light in the house, pour a glass of water, and sit in front of my TV to fire up my gaming console.

Wanting to see if my buddy is online, I connect to our favorite game server.

If there’s one thing I can count on to chase away my loneliness, it’s—

“Hey, you.” The deep timbre of his voice rumbles in my headset. “Thought you’d never show up.”

I check my watch, and to my surprise, it’s a quarter to midnight. We had plans for ten thirty.

“Stayed out a little later than I planned. Whoops.”

Wish—or WishIWas, his full screen name—chuckles, the sound warm and rich. “You’re not sorry one bit.”

“Did you hear me apologize?” I fire back.

He laughs outright now. “You’re right. I should have known better.”

The two of us have been playing an online baseball game for almost seven years. We’ve never met—I don’t even know his real name, and he doesn’t know mine. We’ve never shared pictures or even what city he lives in, only that it’s in the Eastern time zone.

I do know he travels a lot for work. When he can, he brings his gaming console, and since I’m a night owl, we can still game for a few hours even if he’s on the West Coast. Most days, I’m crashing into bed around three or four, but I’ve been known to stay up to watch the sunrise on Beacon Street before finally face-planting into my bed.

He doesn’t know it, but he’s my best friend. The only person I can truly be myself around.

My family sees me as the moneybags. My friends think I’m a sex-obsessed horndog. And yeah, they’re not far off. But that’s all they see me as. Fun. Easy. No substance.

Wish knows me nearly as well as I know myself. He has a high-pressure job, and we’re there to hang out. Relax.

And along the way, we’ve become friends. Good friends. I don’t need to know his name or what he looks like to value his place in my life.

“How was book club?” he asks as we settle into our game.

“Good. I’m a little tispy.”

He chuckles. “Tispy?”

“Fuck off. Tispy. You know the word I’m trying to say.”

“You mean wasted?”

“Go to hell,” I grumble, stretching out my legs, then immediately folding them again.

Wish snorts. “Then who will you talk to?”

“Shut up. I have other friends aside from you.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I do! I was just with them tonight.”

“And yet you’d rather hang out with me.”

Finally, I admit, “You’re more fun than they are.”

He gives a full-on belly laugh. “Hell yeah, I am.”

“They’re all boring and in loving relationships and blah. It’s not as fun anymore.”

“I feel that. All of my… uh, my coworkers. They’re all getting married,” he says. “And yeah, I’m happy for them, but it’s hard to deal with. Especially since my sister is now engaged to my stupid, asshole best friend.”

It’s my turn to laugh. “Stupid, asshole best friend?”

“I’m happy she’s happy, but why him? There are literally billions of people on this planet, and she took my one real-life friend away from me.”

“Oh, sweetie…”

“Shut up. You’re being condescending.”

I giggle. “You caught on, huh?”

Wish grumbles under his breath, the words indistinct but his frustration clear as day. “I have my… coworkers, and they’re fine. I like them, we hang out on road trips. But it used to be just me and him. We’ve been buddies since high school. And now…”

“And now he’s engaged to your sister, and you’re not his priority. Or hers.”

He grunts in agreement.

“I’m sorry. It sucks to be forgotten and left behind.”

A sound rumbles from deep in his throat. Pained. Drawn out. Until he finally whispers, “I really don’t like it.”

“Well, you still have me.” I try to inject some positivity into my voice, but I don’t know that I succeed.

“Thanks, Annie,” he says glumly. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Poor guy. He sounds so down. It’s times like these that I wish I could wrap him up in a hug and comfort him in person.

But he thinks I’m StatisticalAnomaly—Annie for short. He doesn’t know me as Ceci Ramos, billionaire tech genius.

“Hopefully, you never have to find out.” I clear my throat. “Now, are we going to do this or what?”

We’ve been idling in the waiting room for so long the screensaver has turned on. I smash a button on the controller, and the game comes to life. I click to initiate a new round.

Wish’s gravelly chuckle sounds forced, but at least he’s trying. Sometimes just showing up and putting on a brave face is half the battle.

“Let’s do this.”