Page 9 of Playing Dirty
"Samantha and I had a sommelier do the pairings at our wedding," Tom says, leaning back. "The wine was great, but the guy was so far up his own ass about it." He shrugs. "Though I did end up buying a whole case of this one bottle he picked. Pull one out every year for our anniversary."
I smile as I toss the used tape toward the bin. Tom plays like a freight train on the ice, but he's a romantic at heart.
"That's more or less the vibe I'm getting from the whole industry," I say, starting on my pads. "Though there were some decent people in the mix at the launch. And it's a woman I'm working with, for what it's worth."
"Ooohhh." It comes from a half dozen directions at once, perfectly synchronized.
"Grow up," I say. "Real professionals in here today."
"Is she your age?" Jonesy asks. "Or like, an older estate-owner type? Cardigans, reading glasses, a dozen cats?"
"Mid-twenties, I'd wager," I say as I haul my jersey over my head.
Jonesy grins. "So with your history, I assume you’re planning on asking her out?"
"No," I say firmly. "She's pretty and everything, but she's not my type. Plus I think she hates my guts."
"Finally, a woman with taste," Betts shouts from across the room.
"Yep, clearly a woman of intelligence," Jonesy agrees, nudging my arm, and Tom snorts into his towel.
I roll my eyes. Honestly, calling Margot pretty is like describing a category-five hurricane as a light breeze. She's stop-traffic gorgeous, with glossy dark hair and a face that belongs on a vintage pin-up. A smile as sweet as honey and eyes of steel, and I'll be damned if that combination doesn't get right under my skin.
"You still with us, Cillian?" Tom asks, laughing. "Daydreaming?"
Guilty, but I'd sooner take a puck to the teeth than admit it here.
"Praying for better teammates," I say. "Anyway. I'm focusing on the game. I don't need any distractions right now."
At least the last part is true.
"Good." Betts points at me with a deodorant stick like a gavel. "Don't let the wine distract you from the Cup, star boy."
"Not a chance," I say, and head for the showers.
I'm quick in the shower, and I'm just lacing up my boots when my phone buzzes on the bench. A text from Margot.
Margot:Confirming 9am Monday for the portfolio orientation and tasting. Your assistant said you’d be free, but let me know if this time doesn’t work. Otherwise, I'll meet you in the Solstice lobby then.
I smile down at the screen. Despite wine being nowhere near an interest of mine, I'm actually looking forward to Monday,and I'd be lying if I said it was only about the change of scenery from the rink. I type out a reply.
Me:Works great, and I'm looking forward to it.
The typing dots appear immediately. They flicker, then vanish. Come back. Disappear again, and no message follows. I feel a small, ridiculous surge of disappointment staring at the empty space.
Jonesy leans over. "Wow. You're already hooked, and you haven't even had the first date yet."
"Fuck off." I laugh and shove the phone into my bag.
We filter out in the usual slow herd, gear bags over our shoulders, an argument about lunch trailing behind us. On the way through the lobby I stop and look at the big framed photo by the door, the team hoisting the Cup years before any of us got here. I've passed it a thousand times, and I want it so badly it's almost embarrassing.
I was born and raised in Ireland, but my dad's Canadian, and we spent chunks of every year visiting my grandparents and cousins. Somewhere between the frozen ponds and the hand-me-down skates, I fell for a game my own country barely plays. My parents were loving and mad enough to back it, which is how I left home young with a duffel bag and a chip on my shoulder, off to prove myself.
I'm still staring at that photo when the front doors open and a familiar voice cuts straight through it.
"Hey, O'Rourke!"
Lucas Anderson, of all the miserable people on the planet, is strolling in with his skills coach, arrogant smirk already in place. He's the resident pest for our rivals in Vegas, and because his parents live in San Francisco, he has a habit of turning up at our facility whenever he's in town.
