“I’m not,” I mutter.
Yes, I’m a skeptic, and by the varied expressions of the women in the room, at least Juniper and Heidi side with me.
Margo interrupts, standing up and smoothing her deep green dress. “Are we going to spend all night talking about men, or are we going to go be fabulous?”
Two hours later, we’re at the NHL’s New Year’s Eve Toast.For a party hosted by an athletic organization, it’s incredibly elegant and makes me think of the glamorous old Hollywood movies Bibi enjoyed.
The ballroom is decorated in gold and silver, with enough champagne fountains to float a small boat. Crystal chandeliers cast warm light over the crowd, and everyone is dressed to impress. The variety show stage is set up at one end, currently occupied by a troupe of fire arts performers. Two men wield blazing sticks that trace mesmerizing spirals through the air, their flames casting patterns of light and shadow across the ballroom, with others dancing in the center.
I don’t know what the hypnotist will do and I’m not that keen to find out. Something about that form of entertainment makes me uneasy. All the same, it’s hard not to be swept up in the thrill of it all.
“This is incredible,” I breathe, taking in the scene.
“I knew you’d fall in love,” Bree says, linking her arm in mine and drawing me deeper into the crowd.
“Look, there’s the guy from the hockey game,” Emerson says. Like me, she arrived today and is one of the few among us without direct ties to the sport, other than being a general fan.
She points toward a cluster of couples near the bar. Last I checked, she was dating a guy named Jett, but the way she flutters her eyelashes suggests she’s single.
I recognize a few faces from the WAG gatherings the girls host with pizza and board game nights, bonfires, and watch parties, in addition to a couple of larger events after big wins that Margo organized.
And that’s when I seehim.
He’s standing slightly apart from the crowd, holding a drink and watching the room with the kind of careful attention that suggests he’s more comfortable observing than participating.
Relatable.
Tall, powerfully built, with dark hair that looks like he’s run his fingers through it and intense green eyes that seem to notice everything.
Including me staring at him.
Our gazes meet across the crowded room, and I feel a flutter in my chest that has nothing to do with the bubbly champagne I haven’t even sipped.
CHAPTER 2
The guywho caught my gaze from across the room is handsome in an effortless way that makes a gal without a lot of experience forget how to form complete sentences.
His broad shoulders fill out his suit jacket perfectly, and his green eyes linger on me. A slight smile plays at the corners of his mouth, like he’s enjoying some private joke only he’s in on.
I look away quickly as heat rises to my cheeks. I tell myself that gorgeous men at parties equal trouble. This is a scientific fact, like the proper temperature for tempering chocolate or the exact timing for a perfect bread rise.
How do I know this? Because the last time I let myself be charmed by a handsome man with perfect teeth and an easy smile, I ended up dating Lewis Cartee for three months.
We originally met at a party in college, then saw each other a few days later while in line to return items to a big-box store. We thought it was funny that we were both taking back the same vacuum cleaner because, and I quote, “it sucked.” Long story short, the wait was long and we hit it off.
Or so I thought.
On paper, Lewis seemed perfect, studying to work in finance with the goal of living debt-free and buying a house, as well as having an active lifestyle, including a love for white water rafting. In person, he seemed wonderful until I realized he expected me to drop everything whenever he called. He’d get super irritated when I had to travel for games and griped that I was too focused on hockey and not enough on fun.
Sounds familiar.
However, to him, it was as if my life’s work, my ticket to Ohio State, and my position as opening center for the best women’s hockey team in the collegiate league at the time was a hobby for me to abandon the moment he wanted to hit the rapids for a long weekend.
Never again.
Besides, this is the NHL New Year’s Eve Toast party. Half the men here are gorgeous in a masculine, brawny way, which means they’re probably hockey players, and the other half are likely agents, coaches, or somehow connected to the sport. Either way, they’re off-limits.
Papa’s voice echoes in my mind.Hockey players think they’re the center of the universe, and they’ll expect everyone else to revolve around their careers.
