Skating the Blue Line (Chicago Dark Knights #1)

1. Liam

LIAM

I look down at my phone screen and let out a sigh.

A text message stares back at me with a set of words that I honestly don’t feel like hearing or even seeing tonight.

Sorry. I can’t make it.

Great. Now I have to go to this stupid event by myself.

I should have expected it, given who I asked to go with me, but that didn’t stop my mind from getting its hope up just a little about not going to this thing alone.

These types of events are the kind that make me want to stab my eyes and pull out my hair all at the same time just out of boredom. I figured having someone there with me would stop me from losing my eyesight or going bald.

Guess not.

Grumbling, I pocket my phone and grab my tuxedo jacket from where it lays on the bed, pulling it on before turning to look in the mirror.

I don’t usually hate wearing suits. They’ve been a staple in my closet since I was eighteen, and I have fun with them.

But there’s something about wearing a tuxedo with a bowtie no less, that makes my teeth grind.

I’m sure that there are men out in the world that look for any moment to wear a good tuxedo. I’m not one of those men.

Looking at the mirror right now, all I see is a fucking penguin in a bow tie chokehold staring back at me.

With another grumble, I shake my head and make my way out of the bedroom.

If I hadn’t committed to attending this event, I would stay home. Maybe order the one take out meal that I allow myself a week and watch the San Francisco Gold’s game.

But contractual obligations and all of that.

Grabbing the keys to my Aston Martin, I lock up the place and start making my way down to the Chicago Opera house.

The city is alive tonight and for a few miles I don’t mind the fact that I have to drive through traffic. Seeing the city like this reminds me of why I was so excited to sign with Chicago at eighteen. It’s times like this that I love the city and the ability to do what I do.

That feeling doesn’t last long though.

Some asshole cuts me off and I’m reminded that I could be at home right now instead of heading to this stupid thing.

There are things to being a professional athlete that I despise. Things that come with the professional part but have nothing to do with the athlete or the sport that is played whatsoever.

Those things, those things are what make being a professional athlete unbearable.

You want to slap a C on my jersey? I’ll wear it with pride and be the damn best captain you will ever see.

You want to make me the face of your team? I will smile proudly into the camera for any picture you want to take. And happily, take a picture right next to it with any fan that asks.

Anything to do with hockey and my team or charity work, I will gladly do.

But if you want to put me in a monkey suit and make me a brand ambassador for your company? I will grumble and complain under my breath every chance that I get.

If I can go through my professional career without working as a spokesperson, ambassador or whatever the fuck, for a clothing or watch company, I would.

But of course, it’s bad business for the captain of the Chicago Dark Knights, or any professional sports team for that matter, to turn down a brand deal with anyone with a respectable name.

Which is why I’m in a stupid tuxedo, driving through commuter traffic to get to the opera house.

Tonight, one of the brands that I’m a spokesperson for is throwing an event. A Night at the ballet.

That should have been my first sign to say no and the second should have been the black-tie requirement at the bottom of the invitation.

But yet, I still RSVP’d and found a date.

Now I’m dateless and going to an event I really don’t want to attend.

I don’t usually complain about these types of things. Most of the time, I go to whatever event my agent tells me to and pretend that I actually want to be there. I may do it for about an hour or two, but I still do it.

Tonight is a little different.

Ninety-nine percent of the time, I usually have someone at my side to make the events I attend a little bearable.

Whether it be a friend or a gorgeous woman, or hell, even my agent, I always have someone there.

When I do attend an event all by myself, I make sure it’s something that I actually enjoy.

Tonight, I would much rather do line drills without a break than sit in a theater for three hours watching ballet.

I’m sure whoever planned this wanted all their guests tonight to have a good nap, because this is guaranteed to be boring.

Harsh.

Shaking my head, I reign in my dislike for the night and pull into the valet station that is set up in front of the opera house.

My door opens and I take a second to compose myself and my face.

The second I step foot out of the car, I go from Liam Crawford, the guy that doesn’t want to be here, to Liam Crawford, the hockey captain with the charming smile that people pay big money to see.

“Sweet ride, Cap,” the valet attending says when my feet are planted firmly on the ground.

I look at the kid as I button up my tuxedo jacket and give him a smile. He can’t be more than eighteen.

“Thanks,” I give the kid my key and a hundred-dollar tip to go along with it. “Keep her safe, yeah?”

He gives me an eager nod and a smile so big it might rip his face in half. “Yes, Cap. Of course, have a nice evening, Mr. Crawford, sir.”

I give him a nod and start making my way towards the red carpet, photographers and reporters that are trying to make this event a lot larger than it needs to be.

With the amount of press here tonight, you would think it was an event put on by Chicago’s richest family, but it isn’t.

It isn’t even a charity event to garner this much attention.

It’s a launch party for a new line of suits for Archwell, a suit company out of New York. I’m one of the many faces that the brand sponsors. Why they are having an event of this magnitude in Chicago instead of New York is beyond me.

But here we are.

As I walk to the front of the theater, I try to avoid eye contact with anyone who might make me walk the red carpet.

I almost succeed but the head of Archwell marketing spots me and diverts me toward the flashing lights.

Grumbly, I take more pictures than necessary and answer mundane questions with a stiff smile.

Am I excited about the new line of suits?

Does it feel weird to be out of a hockey jersey?

How excited am I for the ballet?

I want to roll my eyes at every single one of them, but somehow, I’m able to answer every single question thrown in my direction.

Add this to the list of aspects of being an athlete that I despise.

Fifteen minutes after arriving, I’m finally able to make it inside.

The lobby of the theater is filled with people waiting for the doors to the auditorium to open so they can take their seats.

Every single person dressed to the absolutely nines.

A few individuals come up to me and shake my hand, telling me that they hope this is the season that the Dark Knights make it to the playoffs.

Me and them both.

The Dark Knights haven’t made it to the playoff in six years. Our team is good, and I’m not just saying that because I’m its captain. We have the grit and strength to make it to the top, but for some reason when we come close, we always tend to dwindle. Both on and off the ice.

There are rumors flying around that the team is getting a new owner soon. Hopefully if the rumors are true, it would be for the better of the team and not for the worst. Especially since the season officially starts in a few weeks. We need all the help that we can get to get our hands on the cup.

New team owner or not, though, I’m going to make it my mission to get my team to the very top. I’m promising myself that today.

After some small talk with a few more sports fans, I head to the bar and grab a drink. No way am I going to be sitting through three hours completely sober.

“Whiskey neat, please.” I say to the bartender before he nods and goes to pour my drink.

“Damn. Whiskey? And here I thought Liam Crawford was a vodka man.”

I turn toward the voice and find Elliot Lane standing a few feet away, dressed exactly as I am in a penguin suit.

Elliot Lane is a member of the richest family the city has to offer. The same family that would garner the amount of press that’s outside.

Having a professional athlete and company CEOs attend your event is a good source of media coverage. But having a Lane family member here? Media coverage goes from being good to being fucking fantastic.

The family is known for their tech, their money, their good looks, newsworthy charity work and of course the bachelor status of the two oldest nephews.

Elliot Lane is Chicago royalty, its prince and heir to the family throne. Having him at your event is a sure-fire way of making big money.

I met the guy a few years ago, during my rookie year. He’s a cool guy, and from interacting with him, I know he hates these types of things just as much as I do.

Where I do it for my contract obligations, he does it for familial obligations.

“And I thought that Elliot Lane would be too big of a name for this type of thing.” I throw a smirk in his direction.

“Yeah well, everyone needs a good suit, right?” He says right before taking a sip from a drink that looks like mine.

The way he says the words it’s as if he doesn’t want to be here anymore than I do.

“True, but I’m sure you can snap your fingers and the new line will appear in your closet without the need to come here.”

My comment earns me a shrug. “Sometimes it pays to show your face. Especially when it comes to a business deal.”

Interesting. Knowing who his family is and what they do, he’s no doubt here to see if he can get in someone’s line of sight. Or possibly buy a company or two.

“I hear the Knights might be getting new owners soon.” Elliot changes the subject quickly, not giving me a chance to respond to his comment.

The rumors of the Knights being sold isn’t just a rumor going around in the locker room or the teams group chat thread. The whole hockey world is talking about it.

It’s no surprise that Elliot knows about it either, since at one point in time, his family owned the team before they sold it off to someone with better qualifications.

I give him a nod. “That’s what’s being said. You have any idea who it might be?”

“I’ve heard a few names but nothing concrete. Though, you would know better than I would.” He gives me a shrug.

Doubt that but I don’t push it.

I’m about to change the subject again when it’s announced that the audience should start taking their seats.

The show is about to start.

“I guess that's our cue.” Elliot says, finishing up his drink before giving me a nod and heading into the theater.

Instead of following Lane and everyone else into the theater, I stay behind to savor the rest of my drink.

The second the last drop of whisky hits my tongue, I think about asking the bartender for another one, but decide against it.

It will be bad form to get shit faced at an event like this. Especially with the number of fans and press that are here. One bad picture or video and I can kiss my whole career goodbye.

Instead of asking for a second drink, I make my way into the theater and take a seat in the back row.

I’m in no way small. Being a two-hundred- and twenty-pound, six foot four hockey player has some advantages but definitely not in a theater like this.

Sitting in the back doesn't put me in anyone’s way of seeing the stage and it gives me a better opportunity to sneak away.

A few minutes after I take my seat, the theater fills up and they close the doors, the lights above flickering to announce that the show is about to begin.

From where I’m sitting, I can see the whole room, and every person in it. Apart from the select few individuals that I know from Archwell and Elliot Lane, the room is filled with stuffy rich people.

There is no doubt in my mind that not only am I one of the youngest people in the room, I’m probably the poorest.

I may have multiple multimillion dollar contracts in my name but that isn’t enough to reach the magnitude of wealth in the room.

Now I know why Archwell decided to have the event in Chicago. It will bring millions into their pockets.

The wealth in the room is forgotten when the lights dim down.

Given the darkness that envelops me, maybe I will be able to take a nap during this thing.

I start to get comfortable in my seat, thank whatever stranger decided not to sit next to me and start closing my eyes to take a quick cat nap. My eyes are nearly closed when the spotlight on stage shines and takes all of my attention.

The room is quiet, as the light shines bright, as if everyone here is waiting to see what happens next even if they already know.

Even me, who was getting ready to sleep, is sitting here in anticipation.

I start counting in my head and it takes someone thirty seconds to step onto the strange and take their place at the center.

A woman from what I can tell even in the darkness.

Her back is to the audience, and we all watch as she gets into formation.

She stands facing away from us for another half minute before she turns.

The center stage light shines bright and lights her up beautifully. Everything about this woman, this dancer, glows, especially her eyes.

Even though I’m sitting far away, I can still make out a twinkle in them. A twinkle that tells me that she might be her happiest while on stage.

She’s beautiful and when she gives the audience a smile, even more so.

Music starts to fill the room and soon the curtains are pulled back and the first dancer is joined by others.

For the remainder of the show, I forget about my nap and feeling any type of boredom for three hours.

I forget about not wanting to be here and how I wanted to stab my eyes out at the beginning of the night.

I forget about my distaste for penguin suits and being in a room filled with rich old people.

Everything I thought this night would be is completely forgotten, and I spend three hours being captivated by what is happening on stage.

Not only by what is happening on stage but also by one person.

For three hours, I follow the first female dancer and everything she does. Smiling, cheering her on and admiring her as if she is the one and only star of the show.

And in my eyes, she is, and I don’t even know her.

Three hours of her having my whole and undivided attention.

For the first time ever, I enjoy a night at the ballet.