But why the hell are they recruiting the most antisocial asshole I know to represent Briar at an event that requires smiling and shaking hands?
I wait until we’re dismissed before pulling Coach Adley aside to get some answers. I observe Ryder doing the same with Jensen. From his unhappy expression, it looks like Jensen isn’t giving him any.
Adley admits he doesn’t know why Ryder was picked but confirms the reason for my selection.
“I know you hate this kind of stuff, but the boosters love your dad,” he says, sounding apologetic. “I’m sorry. I know you would’ve preferred to be left out of this.”
“All good,” I lie. “Happy to do my part.”
But I’m battling a mix of resentment and irritation as I leave the auditorium.
“G, you okay?”
I find Case in the hall, concern etched into his handsome face. He’s in sweatpants and a Briar hoodie, his blond hair rumpled as if he was running his hand through it while waiting for me.
“Yeah, I’m good.”
“This Ryder thing is BS. Want me to talk to Jensen and see if he’ll send me instead?”
“No. It’s fine. Really,” I add when I note his skepticism. “I don’t want to make any waves.”
We fall into step together, heading down the hall toward the lobby.
“I don’t want you hanging around that guy,” Case grumbles.
Then I probably shouldn’t mention I was planning on seeing Ryder tonight regardless. We had plans to practice, before Jordan Trager decided it was more important to break poor Tim’s wrist. Now we’ll have to reschedule, thanks to stupid Trager.
“I’ll be fine,” I assure him.
And you’re not my boyfriend anymore, I want to add. He doesn’t get a say any longer about who I spend time with.
We reach the lobby, where I bid him goodbye because my teammates are waiting for me by the doors.
“Gigi,” Case says before I can walk away. “Put me out of misery. Please.”
Unhappiness lodges in my throat. “I…can’t. We’re not together anymore, Case. I don’t want to be.”
He looks so frustrated and upset that it triggers a rush of guilt, but I force myself to ignore it and keep walking.
Later that night, I drive to Hastings to pick up Ryder for the booster gala. The email from the Briar PR lady stated the dress code as semiformal to black tie.
A.k.a. the kind of fashion extremes that give me anxiety.
Does that mean some women will be wearing dress pants and a nice blouse while others are in sequined cocktail gowns?
What kind of gala is this?
I split the difference when dressing and picked a little black dress to wear tonight. Hair down, minimal makeup save for a bold pop of red lipstick. I even made an effort to get a French tip manicure after the meeting today, which is essentially flushing money down the toilet because my fingers will only be banged up again when practice officially starts next week.
I climb the porch steps on my high heels and ring the doorbell, wondering what a one-hour drive to Boston with Ryder in my passenger seat will be like. The man barely speaks. And while I’m usually okay with comfortable silences among friends and family, I get antsy with awkward ones. I might have to throw on one of my meditation playlists. Try to zone him out.
The door swings open and a familiar face greets me, a pair of playful eyes. Shane smiles at the sight of me, then groans when he notices what I’m wearing.
“Oh, that’s nice. Can I be your date tonight instead?”
“Call it a date again and I’ll punch you in the nuts,” I say sweetly.
“Don’t threaten me with a good time.” He flashes a cheeky grin and I’m momentarily distracted. Those dimples are dangerous.
He opens the door wider for me. “Come in. I need you to settle something for us.”
“Settle what? And for whom?” I gaze past his broad shoulders, but he seems to be alone.
He takes my hand and tugs me inside. Amused, I follow him into the living room, which, of course, looks like a typical man cave. Huge sectional, two leather armchairs, a massive TV, and a lot of beer bottles on the coffee table. Despite the cluttered table, the room is neat and tidy, so they’re not complete heathens, I guess.
Beckett Dunne, sprawled on the chaise part of the couch, greets me with his own set of killer dimples. “Graham,” he says as if we’re old friends.
“Where’s Ryder?” I ask.
“He’ll be down in a minute,” answers Shane. “You gotta settle this first.”
“Fine. I’ll play along. What am I settling?”
Shane slides his hands in the rear pockets of his jeans and rocks back on his heels. “Which pickup line you would respond better to.”
“You’re practicing pickup lines? Classy.”
“We’re not practicing. We’re trying to determine which one of us is right. Spoiler alert: it’s me.”
“I kind of have a feeling you’re both wrong,” I say helpfully.
“Nah,” Beckett drawls.
Those dimples again. God help the women on the receiving end of these pickup lines. I have to admit, even I’m not immune. I find them both attractive. If I was in the market for another hockey player boyfriend, either of them would do. Lookswise, anyway. Personalities are yet to be determined.
“I’m saying you go charming,” Shane explains. “Be a little witty.”
“You think your line is witty?” Beckett hoots.
Shane ignores him. “It’s fucking witty,” he assures me.
I turn to Beckett. “And you?”
“I think you take the direct approach. We—the chick and I—we both know what the other one wants. Your line needs to reflect that.”
I can’t deny I am intrigued. “All right, let’s hear them.”
Shane grabs a full bottle of beer from the table and holds it out to me.
“Oh, I’m not drinking. I’m driving.”
“You don’t have to drink it. Just hold it. Get in character.”
I laugh as he shoves the bottle in my hand and ushers me to the center of the room, where he proceeds to set the scene like the director of a community theater production.
“Okay, you’re at the club, right? There’s, like, a sick R&B song playing or whatever. You’re vibing.”
I start bopping my head to nonexistent music.
He stares at me in dismay. “Oh no. I’m not approaching you if that’s how you’re dancing.”
I stare back. “Do you want me to play your game, or can I go find Ryder and be on my way—”
“Fine, let’s continue. You ready?”
“I guess so?”
I don’t know what it is about hockey players, but I find that all of them are insane. Sexy but insane.
Shane moves to the doorway, cracks his knuckles, and then fully commits to his character by striding toward me exuding sheer confidence. He casts that smile again. Tucks one hand in his pocket, all cool-like.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey,” I play along.
“I’m Shane.”
“Gigi.”
“Tell me something, Gigi.” He slants his head. “Are you an organ harvester? Because you’ve stolen my heart.”