Chapter 6
Chapter Six
BILLIE
Carys links her elbow with mine as we make our way down to the depths of the arena.
Despite staying in our seats until the Zambonis were finishing resurfacing the rink, there are still a significant amount of people in the main walkways of the arena.
The crowds don’t phase Carys as she navigates through them, ignoring the large groups trying to get out of the main doors.
I adjust my bag as a group of drunk men jostle by us, obnoxiously loud in their celebration.
There’s a general air of excitement that gathers around everyone, a clumsiness to it like it’s an ill-fitting coat they’re not quite sure how to adjust. Winning clearly isn’t something that has happened here all that often for the last few years.
“Man, I told you that trade was good for us!” someone says behind us.
Another man scoffs. “No, you didn’t. You bitched to anyone who would listen that it was a waste of resources to get James from LA.”
Carys grimaces as she looks at me. I roll my eyes. The majority of the hockey world was pretty put out that the Scorpions traded for Paxton. It only got worse when they lost to Seattle. Luckily, the last couple games have shut most of the keyboard analysts up.
“Whatever, man.” The guys push past us, forcing Carys closer into me, her hair pressing against my cheek. My breath catches. “We going out? My buzz is fading.”
One of the jerks wears a James jersey, the number 16 making it Rhett’s. He elbows the other with a smirk. “I know the bouncer at Slapshots. He said he’ll let us in if we get there by ten.”
Carys pulls on my arm, forcing us away from the irritating group and through another crowd of people trying to get out of the arena.
She smiles to a security guard, quickly flashing her lanyard and badge that show she’s allowed to enter the employee access hallway, while keeping her arm looped with mine.
The man looks over to me, and I quickly pull my own arena ID and lanyard from my pocket.
He steps away from the door, silently ushering us through.
The noise immediately cuts in half, the din of the crowd dampened by the concrete walls of the employee hall.
Carys breathes deeply and stretches her neck, one of her perfectly curled waves falling across her cheek.
The movement makes the nearly imperceptible aroma of her orchid scent become more noticeable.
My breath catches in my throat, and my hands tingle.
The desire to touch her, to tuck that strand of hair behind her ear and trace the soft line of her jaw, rushes through me, stronger than the Santa Ana winds.
I clench my fingers around my arena ID, breathing through the urge.
“Locker rooms are just down this way,” Carys says, guiding me to the left and deeper into the arena.
Not for the first time this last week, guilt rushes through me as fast as the urge to touch her.
Have I noticed how beautiful she is? Of course.
It’s impossible to not see just how beautiful she is.
Spending nearly five uninterrupted hours with her a few nights ago while she built out an obscene amount of custom table garland just drove it home.
I trace the band of my engagement ring. In the three years I’ve been with Paxton, I’ve never noticed another person like this.
Like… like there’s something innate that draws me toward them.
It’s so similar to the way I felt when I first met Paxton, it’s unnerving.
Despite my wishing the last few years, I’m not an Omega.
I’m not an Alpha, either. Betas aren’t beholden to the primal needs the other designations have. And yet…
I swallow as my chest flutters again.
Thankfully, Carys doesn’t notice my slip. Her shoulders are relaxed by the time she’s pushing open an unmarked door at least halfway around the arena from where we started. I force a subject change so I have something to focus on other than the mess happening inside my body.
“Is Slapshots a big club out here?” I ask.
She scrunches her nose.
“Not exactly.”
She turns to the right. This hallway is decorated with jerseys and helmets and awards from previous seasons. A middle-aged woman in a pantsuit leans against a threshold about twenty feet away, her brows furrowed as she focuses on her phone.
“It’s the team’s typical hangout spot after games,” Carys explains. “Some people are very…” She purses her lips and drops her lanyard over her neck. “Some people are obsessive about trying to arrange accidentally-on-purpose run-ins.”
I can’t help but snort. “Got it. Those people are… something.”
And then I manage to blush just a bit. Carys’s lips curve into a half-smile, curiosity in her gaze.
“I met Paxton in a bar on my twenty-first birthday,” I explain before she can ask. “Some of my sorority sisters convinced me to go out. They picked the bar they knew the Reign went to after home games hoping to hook up with one of the players.”
Carys grins. “Good for you!”
My own lips twist as I remember the falling out within the sorority those last few months of my senior year. “They… never really did forgive me for being the only one to manage to catch any of the players’ attentions.”
Carys frowns, her eyebrows lowering over her eyes.
I don’t bother to hide how those remembered days had me feeling, the helplessness and rage and betrayal.
It feels natural to show Carys these things, to give her some of the memories that only Paxton and Marley have with me. Without a word, she squeezes my elbow.
The woman glances up from her phone as we approach. Her smile is warm, crows feet crinkling the corners of her eyes. It takes me a minute to realize who she is.
“Carys!” Marilyn says, the same warmth reflected in her voice. She pushes off the wall, and Carys goes to her, dropping her hold on my arm. “I didn’t realize you were here tonight. You could’ve used the family room.”
“Billie and I used Dad’s seats,” she explains with a wide smile as Marilyn wraps her arms around Carys’s shoulders. “Has press started yet?”
Marilyn nods then turns her smile on me. “The brothers were requested pretty heavily by the press pool. They’ve been in there for about ten minutes. Should be finished before the hour is up. Are you wanting to hang out in Ares’s office?”
Carys tucks her hair behind her ear, her gaze catching on me. I shrug one shoulder. If she thinks her dad’s office is better than the general bathroom, I don’t mind.
“If it’s not too big of an issue,” she says. “Billie and I need to get into our costumes.”
Marilyn tucks her phone into the back pocket of her suit pants and then ushers us down the hall, her strides eating up the distance.
“Absolutely, sweetheart. If you’ll lock the door to the locker room from the inside, I’ll make sure and let your dad know once he’s out of his meeting with the rest of the coaching staff.
Take as long as you girls need, all right? ”
She pushes open one of the doors that line the hallway.
Carys gives her another blinding smile, more of her stress falling away.
Just as she grabs my wrist, a player walks through another door clearly labeled as the locker room.
It’s not one of the men I’ve been introduced to, his brown hair still damp where it lays against his forehead and the back of his neck.
“You wanted to see me?” he asks, his focus on Marilyn, his body a wall of coiled aggression.
Marilyn raises an eyebrow and nods, her entire posture changing in a heartbeat.
Between one breath and the next, the soft woman with an almost motherly disposition disappears and in her place is an Alpha ready to put someone in their place.
Carys drops her gaze, squeezing my wrist in a silent encouragement to move just a bit faster.
Without a word, I move past her. I can’t help but brush just a hairsbreadth too close, though, my shoulder brushing hers.
As soon as I’m inside the office, Carys says, “Thank you so much, Marilyn,” and then closes the door behind me, effectively blocking whatever conversation might be happening between the PR manager and the player.
A motion-sensitive light turns on, flooding the space in a warm yellow light.
It’s a simple space, a large desk that takes up most of the room with two round-top leather chairs facing it.
On the far wall is another door, most of it a frosted glass.
Carys crosses the space and locks it before dropping into one of the chairs, letting her head fall back, her hair spilling over the edge of the seat. Her eyes flutter closed.
“Did something happen with that player?” I ask, not moving farther into the office. “I haven’t noticed anything in the news cycles.”
Carys shakes her head, shaking out her hands as she sighs.
“The league’s been pretty unhappy with the Scorpions the last couple seasons.”
I frown. “For having a losing record? Teams have those every year. It’s a bit inevitable that one or two or even four or five teams will have rough showings every year. That’s just statistics.”
A corner of her mouth lifts, but she doesn’t open her eyes.
“Not just that. They have a…” Her lips purse.
“A reputation for being irresponsible. Most have been in the news the last few years for poor partying antics and other issues. So they put a lot of pressure on the owner and upper management to get the team cleaned up or they’d forcibly split the team and sell the assets for parts.
” She sighs. “So Meridith came up with a plan to get all the players into a better lens of the limelight.”
All I can manage is a grunt that manages to come off equal parts shocked and irritated. Carys doesn’t say anything else, silence settling between us like an old friend, soft and cozy. I let my gaze travel around the room, absorbing the rest of the space.
The walls are a light beige, nearly light enough to pass for white while adding warmth to the space, keeping it from feeling soulless.
It’s oddly similar to the way Carys painted the floral shop.
Behind the desk are two simple bookshelves, mostly full of helmets and pucks and other memorabilia.
A few binders sit in lone splendor on one of the shelves, and a few fiction books, too.
There’s a large team photo that takes up most of the open wall between them, the colors faded.
I don’t recognize any of the players. I take a step closer before curbing my curiosity.
Photos fill the wall across from the desk, in perfect view of whoever is sitting there.
Almost every single one is of Carys. In some, she’s a young girl, her hair pulled into a simple ponytail, her green eyes bright and excited, her smile wide.
It’s the same smile I’ve seen her give nearly everybody she comes across—even when I showed up at Blush & Bloom, hoping to smooth over whatever awkward moment I’d done to have her back off after our first time hanging out, and she was run haggard, clearly tired and worn.
One is of her high school graduation and beside it, just as large, is what must be her graduating from college this last spring.
Multiple cords adorn her gown and a silver medal sits centered on her chest, the glint of the metal reflecting light back and distorting most of the stamped image in the medallion.Marilyn’s in several of them, too, often within an arm’s reach of Carys, as well as one of the players, the one Carys had said gave her a ride to the arena over a week ago when we first met.
Timber Holtz. He’s a winger just like Paxton.
They’ve played on the same line a few times in the last two weeks since the trade.
In a few photos, the most faded, there’s a blonde woman with the same chin and nose as Carys though her eyes are a bright blue.
Her smile is bright, too. In all of them, Carys is no older than a preschooler.
Her entire life is documented here. I can’t help but look between the desk and the photos, trying to imagine the stoic assistant coach sitting here, soaking up all of these memories he has of Carys.
The urge to ask her about all of these moments sits on the tip of my tongue, desperate to fall into the quiet of the office.
I swallow most of them, picking one out of the group to alleviate my curiosity.
“You’re really close with Meridith?” I ask.
Her eyes flutter open. “Yeah. She stepped in and helped Dad when Mom died. So did Timber. He’s been with the Scorpions longer than I’ve been alive, actually. I think there’s a photo somewhere of him holding me in the hospital.”
For the first time, her voice holds a tinge of sorrow. For her mom? For being around professional hockey her entire life? It’s not an easy time, the scrutiny and instability. Once again, the desire to soothe her wells up in me. Her eyes flash to the clock on the desk.
“Press is probably going to be wrapping up soon. We should get ready,” she says, slowly getting to her feet.
She grabs a bag from the bottom shelf of one of the bookcases.
“I packed both the Converse and a set of black pumps. I wasn’t sure the vibes of the party so wanted to make sure I had options. ”
“Right.” I drop my bag onto one of the leather chairs. “Probably the pumps if they won’t kill your feet. Pax said these people are really into the glam of everything.”
She nods, pulling out a pair of black velvet heels and tights that are nearly identical to her skin tone. “I can manage that! You have the dress?”
I hand her the crayon costume I made last night from a basic pink t-shirt dress before pulling an almost identical one in a dark green, and we fall into the semi-familiar routine of two women getting ready for an event together.