Chapter Two #3
“It’s not like it was some kind of epic love story.
You know how this business and this world works.
We signed Dylan to an ambassador contract with Overtime a year ago to reach the hockey demographic, since our contract with Warren Urban from the Panthers had expired.
Dylan was relentless in getting my attention from the day we met.
His persistence was flattering at first. I’m a pretty big hockey fan, growing up watching the Rangers and Reds with my dad and brother, so eventually, I said yes. ”
I look at Brody, meeting his gaze. I’m not going to sugarcoat it or pretend to be innocent. “Our arrangement was casual,” I explain plainly. “We had good sex with zero expectations, and I had a good-looking date for functions I needed to attend.”
Brody’s jaw clenches, but he remains quiet, letting me speak.
“Four weeks ago,” I continue. “I found out I was pregnant. I asked him to meet me so I could tell him. I was clear and direct with him about the pregnancy, and that I had no expectations of him, but I felt he should know.”
I pause, disgust rising in my throat at the memory of our meeting.
“Dylan didn’t take it well,” I say. “He basically threw a temper tantrum in the middle of the restaurant, spewing about his contract and public image. He told me if I kept the baby, I was on my own. He told me he’d sign his rights away the minute the baby was born and threatened to come after me if I asked for child support, as if I would need his money.
” I huff. “He also said he would walk away from Overtime and drag my family’s name through every tabloid in the country, or something like that.
I honestly didn’t take any of the threats seriously.
I was more so appalled by his behavior than anything.
It made me disappointed in myself for being with him in the first place, even though it was a casual relationship. ”
I look at Brody, and even though he’s quiet, I can see anger flickering across his face. The veins in his forearms bulge as his hands clench into fists against the tablecloth.
“That narcissistic piece of trash,” Brody practically growls.
“I knew there was something shitty about Boone the first time I met him. He’s always been an arrogant fuck on the ice, so it didn’t surprise me that he was the same off the ice, but this?
Walking away from his kid? And then having the nerve to threaten you?
” Brody shakes his head, fire in his eyes.
“If I ever run into him again, I swear to god it will take everything in my power not to drop him.”
“Brody, no. I promise you he's not worth it,” I say, though I can’t say I don’t like that he’s angry on my behalf and feels the need to protect my honor. “I told him to go to hell, basically, and I mean it.”
“He’s a fucking coward,” Brody says, leaning over the table, his eyes locked on mine with absolute conviction. “And he’s an idiot for walking away from the best thing that could have happened to him. You’re worth twenty of him, Ellis.”
I’m not sure what to say to that. Then the waiter brings our food, and the tension melts into something easier as we eat.
“Enough about that asshole. Let’s talk about something more pleasant,” Brody suggests. So we talk about the playoffs, his sister, and my ideas for the next Overtime launch. Sitting across from him feels natural, which is a stark contrast to the performative dynamic I had with Dylan.
“I feel like we’ve covered a lot in getting to know each other better. What else should we talk about?”
“Tell me more about you,” he drawls.
“Me?” I want to laugh. “Pretty sure most of my life is online. Everyone knows my story. I went to Georgetown before working for my father’s company. I enjoy tennis in the summer, skiing in the winter, and vacations on the Vineyard.”
Brody leans in and tilts his head. “Those are things I could learn from reading your bio or an interview in a business magazine, but what I want to know is the simple things. What’s your favorite candy?”
“That is a silly question.”
“It’s important.”
I give a sigh and then look up to think because I’ve never put any stock into what kind of candy I like.”
“I never really thought about it,” I admit, tapping a manicured nail against my glass. “I suppose I’ve never let myself want something just because it was sweet.”
“Come on.” Brody's mouth curves, patient, like he's got nowhere else to be tonight. “Everyone's got one. The thing that takes you back. First one that comes to mind. No overthinking it.”
“You say that like being type-A isn't my whole personality.”
“I've noticed.” His eyes hold mine a beat too long. “Humor me anyway.”
I exhale, and against my better judgment, I let myself actually consider it. “Sour Patch Kids,” I say finally, surprised by my own answer. “The red ones. I used to steal them out of my brother's backpack before school.”
Brody laughs — low, real, not the practiced charm he probably uses on reporters. “Sour first, sweet second.”
“Excuse me?”
“Sour Patch Kids.” He leans back, folds his arms, and studies me like I'm a game film he's rewinding. “Bites first. Makes you work for it. Then it's sweet, but only once you've earned it.” He shrugs. “Tells me a lot, actually.”
“You're reading way too much into candy preferences, Brody.”
“Am I? Or is it just easier to admit it's a good theory when it's not about you.”
He grins, and there's something disarming about how easily it comes to him. “My turn, then. Ask me something. Simple. No stats, no highlight reel.”