Page 10 of Playing Dirty
It's our facility in name only. The team owns it, but it's a public rink with four sheets of ice open to anyone with a credit card, so I've crossed paths with plenty of people I'd rather avoidon my day off. Doesn't make his arrival any more welcome. The man is a fucking asshole.
"I'm shocked you don't have a wine glass in your hand," he says. "Word gets around about the vineyard sponsorship."
"And I'm shocked you're upright, Anderson. Word is that shoulder of yours is held together with tape. I'd have thought you'd be saving what's left of it for the playoffs."
His skills coach coughs into his fist to cover a laugh, and Anderson's smile thins out. A bit of slagging from friends or teammates I can take all day, that's half how I show affection myself. But there's never anything friendly underneath it with Anderson.
"Cute. You know, I actually know that place. Solstice. We did some charity thing with them last year." His smirk creeps back. "I bet you're working with that sommelier chick. The hot one. She's so prim and proper but I bet she's a slutty little firecracker in the?—"
"Careful," I warn. "You really don't want to finish that fucking sentence."
I can feel the rage climbing the back of my neck, a white-hot flash that has my hands balling into fists at my sides.
"Easy. It's a joke." He lifts his hands. "I'm just saying. Make the most of the perks."
I was raised by a mam who’s spent her life in domestic abuse advocacy, all alongside four sisters I would burn this entire building down for. Then there's my sister Fiadh, who was assaulted four years ago back home after some guy followed her out of a pub. I was supposed to be home for her birthday, but I'd cancelled for some stupid team obligation.
The what-ifs will haunt me for the rest of my life. So men like Lucas Anderson, and the toxic locker room bullshit they drag around with them, can go straight to hell as far as I'm concerned. And unfortunately, hockey is crawling with assholes exactly like him.
Jonesy steps up beside me, not bothering to hide the disgust on his face. "Fuck off, Anderson. Nobody here needs your creepy commentary."
Anderson rolls his eyes and turns for the desk, then throws a look back over his shoulder. "Oh, by the way, I saw Brennan last week. He said to pass on his best, if I ran into you."
I don't answer. There isn't one that doesn't end with my fist somewhere it shouldn't be. I have to win this thing, if only so I never have to hear that guy's name thrown at me like a threat again. Jonesy shakes his head and tilts his chin toward the door.
I check my phone one last time on the way out, like Margot's message might somehow have changed. Still nothing.
Monday it is.
3
Margot
"Archie, you'rekillingme," I say into the phone, pacing the corner of the back terrace with one hand braced against the stone railing.
It's a bright morning, and the dormant vines stretching across the vineyards are just starting to push their new green shoots. It would be enchanting if I weren't currently begging a grown man for wine glasses.
The thing about catering to the ultra rich is that you get the most absurd requests. The Carter wedding party signed off on every detail months ago, then decided six days out that the entire palette had to change, including the color of the wine glasses. Smoked amber, specifically.
"Alright. Foryou, Margot, I'll move some things around," he says, the smile audible in his voice. "But I'm kind of screwing over the Henley estate to do this, you know."
I resist the urge to jump up and down right there on the patio.
"Thank you, Archie. I owe you a massive one." I press a handto my chest in relief. "And let's be honest, is disappointing the Henley estate really such a tragedy..."
I helpfully offer the reminder that, while persistent, I am always kind to my fellow service workers, unlikeA Certain Lead Coordinator At A Certain Rival Vineyard.
Archie chuckles. "Yeah, yeah. But you're buying the first glass next time Helen and I are in for a tasting."
"You two can have the entirebottle, Archie,” I say. “I'm naming a patron saint after you. The holy protector of last-minute logistics."
"I'll hold you to that," he says, still laughing.
"Oh, and tell Helen I finally tracked down that dessert wine she fell for at the last tasting. I'm setting a bottle aside with her name on it, okay?"
"I will. You're too good to us, Margot," he laughs, the call ending with a final click.
I exhale and stuff my phone back in my pocket. Handling logistics when the stakes are high is my personal superpower. Maybe it's the exhaustive wiring of an eldest daughter, or maybe it's just the daily Lexapro turning my anxiously neurotic impulses into something useful. Either way, I've learned to embrace it.
