“I don’t know if—” Sloane starts, but her fiancé steamrolls her attempt at adding anything to the conversation.
“We all saw what your last contract came in at, so provided you’ve been responsible with your money, it’s definitely something you should be able to afford.”
Like I said: douchebag.
I bite the inside of my cheek, tempted to say I’ve been horribly irresponsible with my money and don’t have a dollar to my name. But as lowbrow as my upbringing might have been, I have enough class to know that finances aren’t polite dinner conversation.
“Nah, man. I only hunt what I can eat and I’m unfamiliar with how to cook a lion.”
A few chuckles break out around the table, including from Sloane. I don’t miss the quick moment where Sterling’s eyes narrow, where his teeth clamp, and his jaw pops.
Sloane jumps in quickly, patting his arm like he’s a dog who needs soothing. “I used to hunt with my cousins out in Chestnut Springs too, you know?”
I’m tossed back in time, remembering a young Sloane keeping up with the boys all summer. Sloane with dirt under her nails, scrapes on her knees, sun-bleached hair all tangled and free down her back.
“It’s more about the thrill, you know? The power.” Sterling ignores Sloane’s comment entirely.
He looks at me like an opponent, except we aren’t playing hockey right now. If we were, I’d be tempted to give him a quick blocker shot to the face.
“Did you not hear what Sloane just said?” I’m trying to be cool, but I hate the way he’s treated her through this entire dinner.
Sterling waves a hand and chuckles. “Ah yes. I’m always hearing about Wishing Well Ranch.” He turns to her with a condescending tone and a mocking smirk. “Well, thank goodness you outgrew whatever tomboy phase you went through, babe. You’d have missed your calling as a ballerina.”
His shitty response is only made worse by my realization that he heard exactly what she said and chose to ignore her.
“I can’t even imagine you handling a gun, Sloane!” one guy further down the long table exclaims, his nose a deep red from far too much scotch.
“I was pretty good, actually. I think I only hit something alive once.” She laughs lightly and shakes her head, bright blonde strands of hair slipping down in front of her face before she pushes them back behind her ears and drops her eyes with a faint blush. “And then I cried inconsolably.”
“I remember that day.” I glance across the table at her. “You couldn’t even eat the venison for dinner that night. We all tried to console you—it didn’t work.” My head shakes at the vivid walk down memory lane.
“And that right there”—Sterling points at Sloane without even looking at her—“is why women don’t belong out hunting. Too upsetting.”
Sterling’s overgrown frat buddies guffaw at his lame comment, which urges him to go all in on his assholery. He holds his glass up high and looks down the table. “To keeping women in the kitchen!”
There’s laughter and a smattering of people offering “cheers” and “here here.”
Sloane dabs the white cloth napkin over her full lips with a prim smile but keeps her eyes fixed on the empty place setting before her. Sterling goes back to gloating with the other guests—ignoring the woman sitting beside him.
Ignoring the piece of herself she just tried to share with him. Ignoring the way he just embarrassed her.
My patience for this night is quickly dwindling. The urge to slink into the background is overwhelming.
Sloane catches my eye across the table and gives me one of her practiced smiles. I know it’s fake because I’ve seen her real smile.
And this isn’t it.
It’s the same smile she gave me when I told her I couldn’t go to prom with her as her date. Taking a twenty-three-year-old NHL player wasn’t appropriate for either of us, and I was the asshole who had to tell her that.
I smile back, feeling frustration build inside me over the fact she’s about to tie herself to someone who treats her like an accessory, who doesn’t listen to her. Or appreciate that she’s layered and complex, and not just the polished princess she’s been molded into by her family.
Sterling catches the exchange and turns his attention to me once again. It makes my skin crawl. “Sloane tells me you've been friends for a long time. Pardon my confusion, but a gruff hockey player doesn't seem like he'd be friends with a ballerina. Of course, I haven’t seen you around much since her and I got together. Something keeping you away?” He drapes an arm over her shoulder in a show of possession and I try not to fixate on the gesture.