Page 27 of Playing Dirty
Isabelle laughs. "You're just in time for the tail end of a very scandalous conversation, actually."
“It’snotscandalous, besides I already called and told Sabrina all about it.” I tip my glass toward Sabrina. "I was just catching them up on the whole gala situation."
"Yes, it's a national tragedy.” Sabrina nods. “Margot is beingforced to endure an evening with a man who is tragically both handsomeandcharming. Shall we have a moment of silence for her struggle?"
Laughter ripples around the table while I aim a withering, elder-sister look her way. "I knew I should have revoked your invitation today."
She only grins. "Oh, hush. And you're taking this a bit hard, aren't you? You never get rattled like this, which leads me to wonder. The lady doth protest too much?"
"See, I was suspecting the exact same thing," Isabelle says.
I bury my face in my hands. "That is absolutely not what's happening here. He is sonotmy type, and besides, no athletes. Remember?"
“I remember,” Sabrina says, her face softening as Isabelle squeezes my arm. "Jason was horrible and did a real number on you. And for the record, if I ever see him again, I'm going to spit in his face for what he did to you, and then knee him squarely in the balls, and then?—"
"As always, I appreciate your unwavering commitment to violence on my behalf. But he's not worth a battery charge." I cut her off with a laugh.
"Alright, alright. Just know he has it coming.” Sabrina grins. “But hear me out, your usual type, the one you're so attached to, hasn't exactly delivered the happily-ever-after. And I'm not claiming a hockey player is the cure-all. I'm just saying, keep an open mind for someone who might surprise you."
I snort. "You want me to keep an open mind for a guy that I actively dislike."
She shakes her head. "I'm saying don't be so closed off. Plus, I suspect you don't dislike him nearly as much as you claim."
Both Isabelle and Celeste are wearing matching, knowing looks that make me want to crawl under the table. I'm just drawing breath to launch a defense when Alex arrives beside us,a plate of something savory and incredible-smelling in his hands.
"Hey, guys. Always nice to have the whole group together," he says, setting the dish down.
"Saved by the food." I exhale a long, grateful sigh. "Alex, you have no idea how much I needed this interruption right now."
He laughs. "Well, I’m always game to provide a distraction. And you must be Celeste? Great to finally meet you."
He shakes her hand while Isabelle handles the introductions, the group sliding into small talk. Sabrina, never one for a filter, immediately puts in an order for one of his specialty cocktails, which Alex grants with a smile. She's basically their surrogate little sister at this point, and they dote on her in a way I find ridiculously sweet.
Alex catches Isabelle's eye on his way back to the kitchen and gives her a quick, private wink, and the look she returns softens her whole face in a way that always makes me a little wistful. They make it looksoeasy, being in love, planning a wedding while running their dream place, and somehow having more fun than anyone I know while they do it.
I turn my glass slowly by the stem while the table talk fades to a hum around me, my mind drifting toward things I try not to think about too often. I love my life. I love my independence, the house I've curated exactly to my taste, the total lack of a man around to whine about the floral throw pillows.
It's a full life. I'd just be lying if I said I didn't sometimes want someone to share it with. Maybe it's a symptom of growing up on a steady diet of Jane Austen and those sweeping, dramatic romance novels from the eighties, but I've always been a bit of a helpless romantic.
Sabrina nudges my shoulder, catching my eye with a questioning look.You okay?I give a quick, reassuring nod, and she gives my forearm a supportive squeeze before returning to the conversation.
My phone buzzes against the table. I glance down, and it's him.
Cillian:So. I hear you might be my date?
I lock the screen and set it back down without replying, ignoring the way my pulse picks up. Maybe Sabrina has a point about the open mind thing. But she's wrong about Cillian. He isnotthe exception to my rule.
7
Cillian
It's the last game of the regular season. Puck drop is in ninety minutes against Vegas on our home ice, and with our playoff spot already clinched, tonight is supposed to be a celebration. I can feel the building starting to vibrate somewhere in the concrete above us. Whether the Vegas team got the memo about the party is another question.
Every man in this dressing room is buried in his own pre-game ritual. I'm at my stall, hood pulled low and AirPods in, working tape around my blade. Tom has his music cranked so loud I can hear the bass leaking out of his headphones, and Betts is halfway through a slow breathing routine he picked up from a girlfriend a year ago and never let go of.
A few stalls away, Jonesy is buried in whatever podcast has hijacked his personality this week. He cycles through obsessions in phases, and the lads track them like weather patterns. Last month was all Roman history. This month it's true crime, which currently has him double-bolting his hotel door on the road andlecturing anyone who'll listen about the importance of situational awareness.
I keep my focus on the tape. I've done it this exact way since my first year of juniors, when one of the lads swore Sid Crosby taped his stick like this. Almost certainly a lie, but hockey players are superstitious bastards, and I'm not about to test the universe the week the playoffs open.
