Chapter 4
Liam
The flash of cameras hits me the second I step out of my car at Madison Square Garden. All-Star Weekend in my home arena is a victory lap.
Three days celebrating the best players in the league right here in New York, with the regular season on pause until next week.
The Metropolitan Division sent four of us this year. Cole as team captain, Logan from defense, Ace, our starting goalie, and me. It's a solid showing for the Renegades, proof that we're having the kind of season that gets noticed.
Skills competition tonight, All-Star Game tomorrow, then back to the grind on Tuesday.
This season is the highlight of my career so far. Instead, all I can think about is Avery's voice telling me she's going to manage my behavior.
“Nova! Over here!” The photographers shout, and I flash them a grin. The one that says I'm having the time of my life, even when I'm not.
Cole falls into step beside me as we head toward the arena entrance. “You good, man? You've been off today and yesterday.”
Here we go. Cole is always trying to get me to talk about my feelings, tone down the partying, make better choices. He's like a broken record. The responsible captain trying to keep his wild forward in line.
He and Avery would get along great.
“Never better,” I lie, adjusting my backward cap. “Ready to show these All-Stars how it's done.”
But I'm not good. I'm pissed off and restless. Seeing Avery yesterday fucked with my head. I hate that now she’s looking at me like I’m a problem to be solved instead of the man who made her scream my name three months ago.
She thinks she can control me? She's about to learn exactly how wrong she is.
The skills competition goes well enough. I place second in the fastest skater event, which normally would annoy me, but tonight I'm distracted by the blonde in the stands who keeps taking photos of me with her phone.
She's exactly the type the tabloids love. Leggy and obviously a groupie.
Perfect.
After the event, instead of heading to the team dinner like I'm supposed to, I make my way over to where she's waiting by the player exit.
“Enjoyed the show?” I ask, flashing her a smile.
Her eyes light up. “You were incredible out there. I'm Sasha.”
“Nova.” I let my gaze drift over her appreciatively, knowing there are probably cameras somewhere catching this. “You here alone?”
“Not anymore, I hope.”
I'm about to suggest we grab a drink when Jake appears at my elbow. “Nova, you coming for the team dinner?”
“I'm good,” I tell him, not taking my eyes off Sasha. “Tell them I had other plans.” I turn back to Sasha. “What do you say we get out of here?”
An hour later, we're at an upscale rooftop bar in Midtown, and I'm buying drinks for Sasha and her three friends who mysteriously appeared. The photographers lurking outside caught us arriving together, which was exactly what I wanted—to send a message.
No one controls me.
My phone buzzes with texts. Jake asking where I am, Cole wondering if I'm coming to the official after-party, and even a message from Jennifer asking if everything is okay.
I ignore them all.
“So what's it like being a professional hockey player?” one of Sasha's friends asks, leaning close enough that her perfume overwhelms the air between us.
“It has its perks,” I say, signaling for another round. “Like meeting beautiful women who appreciate the finer things.”
They giggle like I've said something incredibly witty instead of a line I've used a hundred times. But that's the point. These women don't want depth or real conversation. They want the fantasy, the Instagram photos, the story they can tell their friends.
They want Nova, the character. Not Liam, the guy who's spiraling because his publicist makes him feel things he doesn't want to feel.
By midnight, Sasha is practically on my lap, her hands roaming over my chest while her friends document everything on their phones.
“You're so much fun,” she purrs in my ear.
“What were you expecting?”
“I don't know.” She trails a finger along my jaw. “But you're wild. I like that.”
Wild. Uncontrolled. Everything Avery said I needed to stop being.
“You have no idea,” I tell her, and lean in for a kiss that I know will be splashed across every gossip blog by morning.
But even as our lips meet, exhaustion hits me like a wall. The adrenaline from the game is catching up.
I pull back, suddenly drained. “Let's get out of here.”
The photographers are waiting outside as expected, cameras flashing as I emerge with Sasha clinging to one arm and her friends flanking my other side. I flash a grin, play the part one more time as we make our way to the Range Rover.
“Evening, Mr. Novak,” Hudson says as he opens the door.
“Hudson. Take us to my place first.”
The girls pile in, chattering excitedly about the evening. Their voices blend into white noise. All I can think about is getting home.
When Hudson pulls up outside my building, I'm already reaching for the door handle. “Ladies, this is where I get off. Hudson will take you wherever you want to go.”
“What?” Sasha asks in disbelief. “I thought we were going up to your place.”
“Not tonight.” I step out of the car, not bothering to look back.
“Are you serious right now?” Sasha scrambles across the seat, leaning out the open door. “You're just going to leave? After everything tonight?”
“The night is over.” I start walking toward my building's private entrance.
“What the hell, Nova?” she calls after me. “I thought you were supposed to be some kind of stud!”
Stud. Yeah, that's what they all expect. The legendary Nova, who can charm any woman, take them home, and give them a night they'll never forget.
But as the elevator doors close and carry me up to my empty apartment, all I can think about is how right and simultaneously wrong she is. I am exactly what my reputation says I am. But the reputation isn’t me.
The problem is, ever since that night in Chicago three months ago, being a stud isn't as much fun as it used to be.
The game is getting old. The women are so damn predictable. The constant partying is exhausting. The mask is slipping.
On Saturday's All-Star Game, I score twice, assist on another goal, and play to the crowd like the showman they expect me to be. But my mind keeps wandering to Avery.
I expected her to blow up my phone after last night's photos hit the internet.
But there's nothing. Radio silence.
Which means she's probably already on a plane back to Chicago, washing her hands of the impossible client who proved her right within twenty-four hours.
I can't figure out why that pisses me off more than her trying to control me in the first place.
She didn't strike me as the type to give up so easily. All that fire in the conference room, the way she went toe-to-toe with me without backing down. I thought she had more fight in her. I thought she would at least try to clean up my mess before cutting her losses.
But clearly, I was wrong. It seems that even Avery Carter has her limits, and I found them fast.
After the game, instead of going to the official NHL after-party, I convince the guys to hit up a different club. I even manage to convince Cole to go out with us.
“I'm too old for this shit,” Cole mutters, but he comes anyway, probably to keep an eye on me.
The club is packed, the music loud enough to drown out my thoughts. I order a whiskey and find myself surrounded by the usual crowd: beautiful women throwing themselves at us, and people who want to party with us.
I give them all what they want. I'm charming and flirtatious. I dance with three different women, making sure to linger long enough for the phones to capture it all. I buy rounds for strangers. I laugh too loud at jokes that aren't funny.
Fuck Avery.
“Dude, slow down,” Cole says during a brief moment when we're alone at the bar.
“I'm fine.”
“You're not fine. You're being reckless.”
“It's about having fun. Remember fun?” I drain my whiskey and signal for another. “Not everything has to be so serious all the time.”
A brunette slides up beside me, all curves and red lips. “Buy me a drink, hockey boy?”
“Absolutely.” I turn away from Cole's concerned stare and focus on the woman. “What's your name, beautiful?”
She licks her lower lip. “Does it matter?”
I grin. “Not even a little bit.”
By the time the club closes, I've collected phone numbers from multiple women, posed for dozens of photos, and said at least three things to reporters that I'll probably regret tomorrow.
I gave Hudson the evening off, and Jake tries to drop me home, but I wave him off. “I'm good, man. Going to grab some food.”
What I actually do is wander the streets of Manhattan for an hour, my head spinning from the alcohol and the confusion in my mind.
Being Nova is losing its appeal, but without the party-going persona, without the player everyone expects me to be, I don't know who the hell I am. Strip away the headlines, the image, and what's left? Just some guy from a broken home who's really good at putting a puck in a net.
I end up on a bench in Central Park, staring at my phone. Still no messages from Avery. Not even as my PR person.
Why the fuck does it bother me, though?
Sunday morning’s headlines are brutal.
RENEGADES' NOVA PARTIES THROUGH ALL-STAR WEEKEND!
NOVAK'S WILD WEEKEND: MULTIPLE WOMEN, HEAVY DRINKING
IS NOVA OUT OF CONTROL?
The photos are worse. Me kissing the brunette at the club. Me looking drunk and sloppy.
There are dozens of missed calls from Jennifer, my agent, and teammates. But still nothing from Avery.
I'm scrolling through the worst of the coverage when my phone buzzes with a text. For a split second, I think it might be her. Instead, it's from an unknown number:
Had so much fun. Call me! XOXO – Sasha.
I stare at the message, then delete it without responding.