Chapter 16 #2
"Declan Morrison." Colin Holden appears out of nowhere, champagne flute in hand, grinning like a man who did not just watch his team lose two straight. "Look at you. Suit and everything. Very captain-y."
"Thanks, Colin."
"You seen the silent auction table? Half the jerseys are already at four figures. Josie really outdid herself with this—" He catches himself. "I mean. I outdid myself. This was my idea."
"Sure it was."
He wanders off before I can call him on it further, and that's when I finally find the one person I'm actually happy about seeing.
Josie's standing near the bar in a deep navy silk dress that clings to every curve I've spent the last three nights devouring.
Her hair's down, honey-brown waves shining softly, and when she laughs at something Rose says beside her, the sound cuts straight through the noise of the whole room and makes me smile.
Fuck. She's going to be the death of me.
I make my way toward her slowly, weaving through sponsors and suits, keeping enough distance that it looks casual by the time I land beside her at the bar.
"Whitfield," I say, low.
"Morrison." She doesn't look at me, keeps her eyes on the bartender mixing something pink and elaborate. "You're standing very close for a man who's supposed to be keeping his distance. Didn't we discuss this on the plane?"
"I'm ordering a drink."
"You already have a drink."
I glance down. I do, in fact, already have a drink.
"I'm ordering a second drink."
"Uh-huh." Her mouth twitches. Damn. She looks good with lipstick on. "You look good in that suit, by the way. Almost makes up for the fact that your team lost twice in one road trip."
"Careful." I lean in, just enough that only she can hear it over the quartet. "Keep talking like that and I'm going to remember exactly how good you looked bent over that desk last night."
Her cheeks flush pink. She grabs her drink off the bar and takes a very long sip.
"You can't say things like that," she hisses, still not looking at me. "There are literal reporters here, Declan."
"I know." I turn, propping one elbow on the bar so we're back to back, facing opposite directions like two strangers who happen to share a counter. "That's why I'm whispering it instead of shouting. Unlike you when I finish inside you."
Her body shivers against mine. "Cut that out."
"You love it."
"I tolerate it," she corrects, but I hear the smile in her voice. "How was the flight home?"
"Quiet."
I think of Beck, staring out the window the entire way, headphones in, not saying a word. He'd been grilled by Darcy post-match, but I was too busy with the media that I couldn't hear what was going on.
"Beck had a rough game."
"I heard." Josie's voice softens. "That giveaway wasn't all on him, though. The whole line was scattered."
"Try telling him that."
"Captain Morrison!"
A loud voice cuts between us, and I turn to find a woman in a sharp blazer, a bright green press lanyard, and a phone raised in my face, ready to record any tiny sound I make. Beside her, apparently caught in the same net, stands Brooke Kessler, holding two jerseys draped over one arm.
"Oh—hey, Dec." Brooke shoots me an apologetic look. "Sorry, I was just grabbing you for the auction. I need your signature on these last two before we close bidding—"
"That's fine," I say, taking the jerseys, grateful for literally any excuse to step away from the reporter's aimed phone.
It doesn't work.
"Susie Wrath, Beachside Ledger," the woman says, thrusting a small recorder toward me as Brooke hands me a pen. "Got a minute? Tough back-to-back on the road. How's the team processing the losses heading into tonight?"
Is she really doing this right here? A media interview in the middle of a charity event?
Fuck. Sometimes the press really piss me off.
Stay focused. Use Josie's training. Deflect. Pivot. And remain team-focused.
"We're a resilient group," I say, signing the first jersey with a quick swipe of the Sharpie. "Two losses don't define a season. We're looking forward, not back."
"Very diplomatic." Susie's smile sharpens. "Speaking of looking forward—can I ask about your relationship with Ms. Kessler here?"
I freeze mid-signature and Brooke's eyebrows shoot toward her hairline.
"My—what?"
"You two dated, correct?" The woman looks between us, clearly getting the reaction she'd hoped for. "Local sources say it was fairly serious for a while. Is that true?"
How the hell does she know that? Brooke and I haven't been a thing in over a year, it was never public. Not really.
"That was a long time ago," I say, keeping my voice level, my pulse absolutely not level at all. "Brooke and I are colleagues. Friends. That's all there is to say about it."
"So you're not concerned about the optics? Team captain, romantic history with staff, and now…" Susie's eyes flick, deliberately, toward the bar. "Rumors of another new hire being awfully close to the team."
Fuck.
My stomach drops straight through the floor.
"I think," I say, forcing every ounce of Josie's media-calm into my voice, "the only thing worth talking about tonight is the incredible work our marketing team has done for this franchise, and the money we're raising for kids who need it. Excuse me."
I hand the second jersey back to Brooke, who's still staring at me like she's trying to figure out what just almost happened, and I walk away before Susie-fucking-Wrath can get another word in.
But the seed's planted in the back of my mind. I can feel it, sitting cold in my gut the rest of the night.
Someone's watching. Someone knows something.
Maybe we weren't as careful as we thought we were on that damn roadtrip.
The rest of the night drags out for what feels like forever. Colin ropes me into helping run the auction, which apparently means standing next to an easel holding a signed jersey while strangers bid absurd amounts of money.
I sign eleven items, pose for approximately four hundred photos, and somehow end up in a bidding war between two grandmothers over a puck I absolutely do not need.
By the time Colin releases me from duty, my face hurts from smiling and I've lost track of Josie twice.
Luckily, I find her again near the balcony doors an hour later, with the party finally thinning, and the noise dropping enough that we can actually hear each other.
"There you are," I say, stepping out into the cool breeze.
She's at least found a nice spot that's tucked away from the main room and looks out over the beach. But when I step closer, I see she's got that look on her face. The one that means her brain's running twenty different tabs at once.
"You're thinking about the Portland game again, aren't you," I say, leaning against the railing beside her.
She glances up, caught. "How do you always know what I'm thinking?"
"Your eyes go all weird and shiny. Kind of like that fish they served tonight."
She blinks at me, then lets out a laugh that's half-offended, half-amused. "Did you just compare my eyes to a dead fish?"
"Don't worry. You're a very attractive fish," I say, because apparently my mouth has decided to keep digging this hole deeper. "Or, maybe it's a look like you're plotting world domination. Through ticket sales. Is that better?"
She laughs, and I think I'm off the hook.
"Funnily, it's exactly that. I'm standing in a room like this, with money everywhere and people actually excited about this franchise… and it's making me giddy with ideas. This is what it could feel like, Declan. Every night. If we do this right."
"You get turned on by spreadsheets. I've suspected this for a while."
"I get turned on by potential, Declan. There's a difference." She bites her lip, and I watch the shift happen right in front of me, the flush climbing her throat. "Although, for the record, you're not wrong that excitement does... things to me."
"Things," I repeat, stepping closer, hidden by the shadow of the doorway. "Like what kind of things?"
Another new hire close to the team.
"Like, hypothetically," she says, voice dropping as she slides closer, "if you slid your hand a little lower right now, you'd find out exactly how wet a sports-loving woman gets thinking about sold-out arenas."
Christ. My whole body goes tight, and suddenly that warning alarm that blasted in my head doesn't sound so dangerous.
"Josie."
"What? You started it."
"I did not start comparing hockey attendance to your panties."
"You implied it." Her eyes are dancing now, all mischief and heat. "I just followed the logic."
I press my forehead to hers, breathing her in.
"I need you to know," I murmur, "that the second we're alone tonight, I am absolutely testing that theory."
"Good." She pulls back, but the playfulness then settles into a more serious look. "Declan, I've been thinking about something else too."
"About how much you like sucking my—"
She cuts me off with a sharp glare. "Something bigger."
"Oh," I chuckle but hold it in, sensing the sudden change in her tone. "Um, yeah? What's that?"
She looks out at the dark water beyond the balcony, her mouth set in that determined line.
"I think… I think I'm going to invite my mother to town," she says quietly. "For the Portland game. I want her here when I sell out that arena. I want her to see it with her own eyes."
I go very, very still, sensing how big this might be for her.
Maybe as big as me finally answering my father's calls and telling him just what I think of him.
"Josie—"
"I'm going to show her exactly how wrong she was, and honor Dad's belief in me at the same time." She leans in closer, looking up at me through those long lashes. "But Declan? I'm done keeping secrets. And that includes… you. I want you to be by my side."
My chest locks up.
She wants to tell everyone? About me? About us?
Are we ready for that? Am I ready for that?
Fuck.
I shift nervously on the spot, trying my damn hardest to look her in the eyes.
"Okay. I'll… um. Shit. I'll think about it."
She nods slowly, and from where I'm standing, all I can see is…
The countdown just started.