21. Alex
ALEX
“Wow, there’s a VIP elevator?” asks Duff, my newest driver and bodyguard.
“You bet.”
The doors swing open. “After you, Miss Alex.” He holds out a hand to allow me to step in first. Duff is twenty-two years old and cute in the same way that puppies are cute—with lots of tireless enthusiasm.
“Just wait until you see the owner’s suite. It will blow your doors right off.”
“Awesome!” His tongue is practically hanging out at the prospect of watching a Brooklyn game from a box hanging over center ice. Tonight, Brooklyn is hosting Pittsburgh. It should be a terrific game.
Duff is the only one who knows what a big hockey fan I’ve become this season. Usually I watch at home, camped out on the sofa in my den, shouting at the TV whenever Eric Bayer takes the ice.
Since I own a cable TV company, I have an eighty-five inch flat screen. It’s almost like being there. I can watch beads of sweat roll down Eric’s larger-than-life, lickable face in complete privacy.
Except once I screamed so loudly that Duff—who’s usually stationed outside my apartment in the hallway—came running in. “Miss Alex? Is everything okay?”
Everything was not okay. “That was a terrible call!” I’d shrieked. “Get that ref some glasses. I think he must be blind.”
“No way.” He’d watched the replay in horror. “So who’s on the first line tonight?”
That’s how we became hockey pals. And now—when he’s on duty and I’m not traveling—we watch the game together.
It’s basically my whole social life. I work like a dog for ten or twelve hours a day, then I make popcorn to watch hockey with my man-child security guard.
I’m too busy and too pregnant to make new friends.
Also, I’ve been avoiding my old friends.
Until tonight.
We emerge from the elevator on the VIP level. I waddle down the hallway, belly first.
“You know which way to go?” he asks.
“Sure thing. Last season I came to a couple of games.” It was just a social event for me, though. I wasn’t invested in the game. I didn’t have a favorite player.
“Why’d you stop?” he asks.
“Just busy.” It’s only partly true. I’ve been avoiding my friends for too long now. But here I am, ready to show my face again.
And tonight is the night because I’m a nervous wreck. My legal team finally met with Jared Tatum today. Mere hours ago he was informed of my pregnancy and asked to relinquish custody.
So I spent the afternoon checking my phone for messages. And when my lawyers finally called, they told me that the meeting went as well as it could be expected. But that my stunned ex had asked for a few days to read the documents and to get back to them.
“He’ll sign, Alex,” my lawyer said. “Give him a little while to get his head around it.”
But waiting is hard.
Tonight—when I was just home from work and contemplating Nate’s emailed invitation to the game—my phone rang. It was Jared Tatum.
I didn’t answer it, of course. My lawyers have urged me not to communicate with him directly. But I took it as a sign to get out of the house. I’d opened the door to the hallway where Duff sat. “Hey, how about a change of plans? Let’s watch hockey from the rink this time.”
He’d leapt out of his chair. “Seriously Miss Alex? Me, too?”
“Of course. But we have to leave soon. There will be traffic to Brooklyn.”
“I’m ready any time.”
And now here we are, walking down the VIP concourse toward Nate’s box. “It’s that door,” I say, pointing.
“Cool,” the kid says. “This is so awesome. And maybe we can ask someone when Eric Bayer is gonna play again?”
“Sure.” I feel my face heat, though. Because I don’t want anyone to guess my other reason for coming to Brooklyn tonight.
My favorite hockey player has been missing for three games.
Last week, when I tuned in to watch Brooklyn play Chicago, Eric wasn’t on the roster.
And when I asked Bingley where he was, he informed me that Bayer was out with “a lower body injury.”
I’m familiar with his lower body. And it’s a shame if any part of it is injured. So I guess a subtle inquiry wouldn’t be out of place. “If it comes up, I’ll ask Nate.”
“Miss Alex,” Duff says with a chuckle. “It’s okay to be a fan girl. Everyone has a favorite player. Your secret is safe with me.”
But fan girl doesn’t even scratch the surface. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about Eric. It’s been four months since that trip to Hawaii, and not a single day goes by where I don’t wonder where he is, or what he’s doing.
But I never returned his call to my office, because I don’t trust myself. If he came over to visit me, I’m pretty sure I know what would happen. Or worse—I know how bad I’ll feel if it didn’t.
“Do we have, like, tickets?” Duff asks as we approach the door. “Or do we knock?”
“The pass code is on my phone. Hang on.” I pull it out, and discover a message from Eric’s brother, Max. Call me. “Oh, geez. I have to make a call.”
“Right now?” Duff whines.
“Yup. Your boss wants to talk to me.” I step to the side, because the game is about to start. It would be rude to take a call in the suite. But if Max has news for me, I need to hear it.
“Alex,” Max answers on the second ring. “How’d it go with the lawyers?”
“No news yet. I was hoping you had some.”
“No, sorry,” he says quickly. “I’m calling about your other problem.”
“Oh.” I deflate. It hasn’t been a good month at work, to put it mildly. There was a fire at the factory in China where we manufacture motherboards for The Butler. My launch had been going well until our supply chain was abruptly threatened. “What’s the news?”
“I’ve come across some evidence of sabotage.”
“You’re kidding me. Who’d want to sabotage the Butler?” The board will lose their minds. They already are. I’ve spent the week fielding calls about our sudden halt to production. “Are you sure?”
“I’m confident. And I’m working on a theory about who did it. Have you found another source for the hardware?”
“Several. I haven’t chosen one.”
“Is Xian Smith one of the potential distributors?”
“He did call.”
“Take the meeting,” Max urges me. “Ten bucks says he offers you better terms than anyone else, on more units than anyone else can give you before Christmas. But then you have to turn him down.”
“Wait, what?” My head spins. “Max, if he really can bail me out, I’ll have to do what’s best for the shareholders.”
“Let’s talk more about this in person,” Max says. “Soon.”
“You sound very paranoid right now, even for you.”
Max laughs. “You pay me a lot of money to be paranoid. Can I see your list of potential new manufacturers? I’ll tell you why soon.”
“Sure. I have to go.”
“Enjoy the game,” he says.
I hang up, realizing I never told him I was going to the game. Then again, it’s Max’s job to know where I am at all times.
His man Duff is already doing a tap dance outside the door. So I quickly key in the entry code and pull open the door.
As I enter the suite, several people turn to face me at once. “Hi, stranger!” Nate calls out. “Come on in.”
Rebecca—that kind soul—also finds the will to smile at me. “So glad you made it.” She pops a potato chip into her mouth. “Let me take your coat.”
“Thank you,” I say, feeling sheepish. “Your sweater! It’s adorable.”
“Thanks!” she glances down. It’s purple cashmere and the Bruisers logo is stitched right in. “Nate had it made for me.”
“I love it.”
I remove my coat, and Becca lets out a little squeak as she takes it from me. “Well! Hello, baby!”
My hand goes instinctively to my belly. “Can’t really hide it anymore, can I?”
“Not so much. But you look great! Can I grab you a soda and a snack?”
“I’ll get it, Becca. Don’t miss the game on my account.”
She turns to hang up my jacket, and I actually follow her toward the quiet corner where the coat tree stands. “Hey, Becca?”
“Hmm?” She turns around.
“Thank you for inviting me tonight.”
“Oh! We’re happy you could come.”
“I almost didn’t,” I admit. “I still feel bad that I was a jerk to you.”
“Buddy, no.” Becca laughs as she drapes my coat over a hook. “I don’t think you cornered the market on bad moments. And anyway, it’s all forgotten. Go eat some cheese puffs. The faceoff is in five minutes. Who’s the young stud?”
I glance at Duff, who’s smiling like he just won the Super Lotto. “My bodyguard. He’s a Brooklyn fan, so I brought him with me.”
“Excellent. Let’s get this party started.”
I tell Duff to make himself at home. And when I head over to the drinks table, Nate is there, handing me a glass. “What’s new? I feel like I haven’t seen you in ages.”
“Oh, you know. Running an empire keeps me off the streets.” There is a lovely cluelessness to Nate that makes this all easier. He probably doesn’t have any idea that I’ve been avoiding him out of embarrassment.
“Feeling okay?” he asks, grabbing a Diet Coke, his drink of choice.
“I feel great. But fat. And maternity clothes are a drag. All those shapeless waistlines. On the positive side, people always offer me a chair when I walk into a room.”
He cackles. Then he gestures toward the plush seats at the end of the room, open to the rink. “Take your pick. We’re going to win tonight.”
“Is that so?”
“It’s going to happen.”
“Then I’d better find a seat.” Smiling, I glance around the familiar room to see who else is here tonight.
Georgia—the team publicist—is chatting with Hugh, the general manager.
And seated down in front are several men in suits.
I spot Stew, Nate’s right-hand man at Kattenberger Tech.
He’s accompanied by their CFO. I should probably say hello.
One man is sitting alone, though. And just as I’m admiring his broad shoulders in his suit jacket, he turns his head.
Grey eyes are the first thing I see. And they’re set in the same rugged face that stars in my best dreams. Okay, all my recent dreams. I have no idea why Eric Bayer is right here in the box, instead of down on the ice.
But I do probably know why he’s giving me a look that’s one part surprise, one part irritation, and one part hot.
“Wowzers!” Duff says. “There’s our guy right there!”