Spiral (Off the Ice, #2) (7)
I’m staring at her outstretched hand like she has some sort of disease, but she keeps it there for an awkward amount of time, waiting for me to take it.
“You want to fist-bump instead?” she offers, curling her fingers. Like I’m five years old and haven’t learned how to shake hands, though it probably seems that way from my guarded body language. I still haven’t managed to turn fully toward her, my torso twisted awkwardly. I also think my words are caught somewhere in my throat.
My agent, Mason, must have followed me because he comes to my rescue before I can find my voice. He’s watching Sage, calculating and assessing. “I’m Mason, and you are?”
Her smile evaporates when she looks between us. “Seriously? You need your assistant to talk to me?”
Mason steps forward. “His agent, actually.”
Her scoff is one of disbelief. “Well then, Mason, can you tell your client I didn’t do that for him,” she says. “His friend asked, and my little brother happens to be a huge Crawford fan. So, you don’t owe me anything, especially not a date, Elias.”
Her words are sharp, but the way she says my full name is a dart landing a bull’s-eye. No one calls me Elias, not my friends, not the fans, and definitely not someone who just met me.
“It’s Eli.”
She freezes, pivoting to look at me. “It talks! There’s been a miracle,” she exclaims. “Well, Mason, looks like you’re out of a job.”
Mason doesn’t laugh, but I do. He shoots me an unimpressed look, then one at Sage, and turns to leave. I assume he’s declared the threat neutralized because Sage doesn’t seem like the type of woman to put me in a headline by tomorrow morning.
“Thank you,” I finally say.
“No need. I didn’t do it for you, remember?”
When she’s going to walk away, I feel like an asshole. “But I still owe you a date.” I’m not sure why I say it, and she must be thinking the same thing, because her brows knit in confusion.
She gave me a perfect out seconds ago, but I don’t want her to think I’m an asshole—not only because I’m terrified of Marcus, but because she did something nice for me.
“No, thanks. I’m not really into hockey players anymore, and you just reminded me why.” Her words are sweet, but the insult hits just the same.
“You’ve dated a hockey player?”
“Wish I hadn’t,” she mutters. “You’re off the hook.”
“But it’s for charity.” Why am I pushing this?
Her patience seems to be a frayed rope, but she relents. “Fine, you can put your number in my phone.”
With her phone in my hand, I realize I’m in way over my head, but I add my number anyway.
“See you around, Elias.” This time I don’t correct her, and she disappears inside.
To escape the gnawing feeling in my gut, I pull out my phone to see it littered with texts from the group chat. Leaving college for the NHL was a huge change, but since Aiden and I signed with the Thunder back in November, we had time to finish all our coursework a month before the end of spring semester and left Dalton a few weeks ago, but it doesn’t feel like it because of all the texts we get from our friends still at Dalton.
BUNNY PATROL
Dylan Donovan: Another girl in Eli’s hotel room? I’m impressed.
Aiden Crawford: He’s not happy about it.
Kian Ishida: No one’s sneaking into Aiden’s hotel room.
Dylan Donovan: Probably because they’re terrified of Summer.
Kian Ishida: I don’t mind this. Eli’s barrage of fans found my account.
Dylan Donovan: Kian’s never seen so many women in his DMs. I actually heard him giggling last night.
Aiden Crawford: Good. He can stop spending every free minute texting my girlfriend.
Kian Ishida: FYI Sunny was my friend before she was your girlfriend.
Dylan Donovan: Who votes in favor of bringing back Bunny Patrol 2.0?
Sebastian Hayes: Aye
Cole Carter: Aye
Aiden Crawford: Aye
Eli Westbrook: Aye
Kian Ishida: Now you answer?!
When Kian found out we had a group chat without him—Dylan’s idea, and we called it Bunny Patrol 2.0—he moped, so we deleted it and promised never to make another.
Dylan and Kian are undrafted seniors, which means to avoid becoming free agents they’re taking their time to finish their degrees by the end of the year. Neither has locked down where they’re going to play hockey after—or if they’re going to play at all. Sebastian and Cole are juniors, and aside from hockey and parties, they don’t focus on anything else, which is the norm for NCAA hockey players.
The ice in my glass of water has melted in the time I’ve been out here, so as I’m heading back inside to orchestrate a getaway, my phone flashes with a text from my bank.
The monthly money wire has been successfully transferred into the respective account, and the name that flashes on the screen adds to the weight on my shoulders. It’s not the money that bothers me, it’s the reminder of the person who receives it that adds a drop of dread into my stomach. That dread darkens with guilt when I read the encouraging messages from my parents after last night’s game. Another easy assist and nothing to be proud of, yet they cheer me on like I’d single-handedly won the Stanley Cup.