Harley
Fifteen months later
The crowd goes ballistic.
I jump to my feet and clap.
Kaz and the rest of the Enforcers go into the two-minute power play like warriors. My eyes roam to the penalty box where the opposing team. The Troopers, all retired New York Supersonics players, are having way too much fun.
My gaze shifts to the packed arena of fans and I can’t help my smile. From the moment the referee dropped the puck at the beginning of the game, until now, the support of all of these people who came out today for the Born to Wear Blue charity has been unwavering. The energy is enough to light up all of Vegas.
I sit my excited ass back down.
I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help peer over my shoulder on the other side of the aisle where threepersonas non gratasit a few rows up.
Chett and Oskar are engaged in a conversation.
Devlyn narrows a challenging gaze at me.
I give her my best resting bitch face.
She lifts her chin.
Whatever.
When I saw Kaz’s father and his ex-wife dominating the attention on the red carpet not only for their presence, but also for their in your face outfits—her in a lime green bandeau top and micro skirt, and gold thigh-high boots, and him in a bright pink suit—my gut twisted in a knot. Several minutes later, I caught Oskar flirting hard with a gorgeous model-tall brunette until her beefy boyfriend came to stand by her side. Devlyn and Oskar aren’t seeing each other. They’re master manipulators, willing to bend reality to their benefit.
Attention seeking idiots.
I’m done playing her stupid game.
The crowd chants and claps twice. “Let’s go, Enforcers! Let’s go!”
A shrieking whistling pierces the air. “Show ’em who’s the beast on the ice, Kaz!”
I turn around. A standing Hoppy Joe is shaking a fist. I shake mine in solidarity.
“The boss is playing like a champ,” he says.
I respond with an enthusiastic nod.
“I’m grateful he flew me in from Montana to be part of this day.”
I grin at him.
The referee blows his whistle, and I swing my attention to the ice. He drops the puck and the Enforcers have two minutes on the ice with one more player than the Troopers. Even though this is for charity, and there are no losers, you’d never know by how fierce these two teams of retired professional NHL players are vying for the last chance to score a goal.
One of the Enforcers intercepts the puck and passes it to number 8, a Swedish former teammate of Kaz’s, who shoots it to him, avoiding the Troopers’ attempts at regaining control orworst, rebounding. My man skates like his life depends on it, his stick directing the puck with precision as it glides on the ice, before rounding the goalie’s net and passing it to number 14. His teammate tries for the goal, but a bunch of determined Troopers swarm him. With a flick of the wrist, number 14 hooks the puck Kaz’s way. It lands against my man’s stick. He shifts his weight to one leg, slaps his stick against it, shoots, and sends the puck sailing to the right of the goalie and straight into the upper corner of the net.
Holy shit.
I jump to my feet.
“Number 22 shoots and SCOORES!” Erik announces the Enforcers’ victory. “Securing a 4-3 win.”
“Kaz! Kaz! Kaz!” The crowd loses it as they chant my boyfriend’s name. I lose it along with all his fans.
The Enforcers’ center and team captain lifts a hand in triumph and fist pumps.
