Shelby smiles up at him. “We like running together, don’t we, baby?”
“Yeah, we do,” he says, kissing her lips.
Karlsson and I shift awkwardly, flashing each other a shrug before the other two break apart.
“You look happy, Ryan,” Shelby says at me. “Really.”
“I am. I’m really fucking happy.”
“Well, this is dumb, then,” says Sully, looking around for a passing waiter. “We need to celebrate. Here—” He passes out fresh drinks to the four of us. “Cheers to Ryan and Tess,” he says, holding up his glass. “To running in the same direction.”
We all raise our glasses, and I grin like an idiot in love. “Cheers.”
“Cheers,” says Shelby, clinking her glass with mine.
“Sk?l,” Karlsson intones, raising his glass too.
As I lower my glass, there’s a crashing sound behind us that makes us all jump. I turn sharply around to see that a waiter has accidentally bumped one of the standing tables, knocking it to the ground. His hands are full with a heavy tray, so I set my glass down and hurry over.
“Hey—hey, I got it, man,” I say, ducking down to right the table for him.
“Thanks,” he says, breathless. “Didn’t see it there.”
“You’re all doing great tonight,” I tell him. “Food and service are all really great. Good job.”
He just nods, hurrying away.
I duck down and pick up the little candle holder thingy that broke in three pieces with the crash. I set it and the flickering electric candle back on top of the little table.
“Ryan Langley?”
I turn around to see a man walking up to me, a smile on his face like we’re old friends. Shit, did I already meet him tonight and forget? He’s tall, about as tall as me. And he’s wearing an expensive looking blue suit with cognac leather belt and shoes. His dark hair is slicked back, dark eyes taking me in.
“Hey,” I say, holding out a hand. “Yeah, I’m Ryan.”
“Thought that was you,” he replies, taking the hand I offer him and shaking it. “I recognize you from the photos.”
“Photos?”
“Yeah…the Rays post you to their socials all the time,” he adds with a laugh, dropping my hand. “Your handsome face is everywhere. They even put you on a billboard. You can see it driving south from the airport.”
I force out a laugh too. “Oh…yeah, I heard about it, but I haven’t seen it.” With any luck, I won’t. No one needs to see that much of my face.
He slips his hands into his suit pockets, still smiling at me, his gaze taking in my suit before coming back to my face. “NHL star forward, Ryan Langley. You’re living the fucking dream, man. When are the Rays gonna wake up and lock you down in a no-trade contract?”
“Trust me, we’re working on it. But I leave the contract negotiations to my agent and just focus on the game.”
“I bet you do,” he says, his smile falling.
“What?”
“And endorsement deals too,” he goes on. “You must be making a pretty penny with those. Good to diversify your assets…while you can.”
“Yeah, I get by,” I reply, shifting on my feet as I look around for the quickest exit. I don’t like talking money with strangers. And this guy is giving me seriously smarmy investment broker vibes. He’s leaning in closer like he’s about to make me a sales pitch. Yeah, not happening. “Well, listen, it was great to meet you—”
“Whoa, hold on, there,” he says, stepping in closer, his hand going to my shoulder.
I immediately step back, breaking our connection. He’s got me in the corner of the room, my back to the wall. I look around, but everyone close has their backs turned so no one is looking this way. We’ve all perfected the art of the ‘mayday’ alert. Very useful with clingy bunnies and fans. One flash of it in my eyes at another Ray, and they’ll begin Operation Polite Extraction.
I’m not sure what this guy wants, but I’m ready to exit stage fucking left.
“I was actually hoping I’d run into you here,” he says, still boxing me in. “I have something I’d love for you to sign.” He slips his hand inside his suit coat, and I instinctively lean away. Then he pulls out a paper folded long ways. He holds it out to me with a flourish, like it’s the deed to a new car.
I look down to see my hand is already in the air, like it’s too damn polite to realize we’re trying to get out of this conversation. My fingers close around what is actually several papers, stapled in the corner. “You want me to sign this?” I say, looking down at the folded pages. I’m not picky. Fans give you all kinds of weird stuff to sign. I just want him to go away.