Especially when every point was as hard won as the ones tonight. The Las Vegas boys didn’t give us those goals. Their game was tight, fast, and on point. Ours was just tighter and faster.
So yeah, we’re feeling ourselves to an almost obnoxious degree in the locker room after the final buzzer.
Jean-Louis and Grammercy belt out a victory song in French—potentially something from the Revolution, judging by the frequent references to Marie Antoinette—while Parker whips his soaking jersey in circles over his head and Torrance does a ridiculous dance up and down the bench. Over by the showers, Winchester and Capo are talking shit about the Vegas goalie, their laughter echoing off the tiles, while Mickey, the rookie, video chats with his brother back home in the corner, his face flushed and giddy.
Even Blue is grinning as Torrance cranks up “Tequila” on his portable speaker, and Zane joins him on the bench for what I think might be a Pee-wee Herman routine.
I’m the only one already dressed and toweling off my hair.
I hate to win and run, but Charlotte and Beatrice are meeting me in the family waiting area. This is Bea’s first time out and about since she came to stay, and Charlotte’s first time back at the arena since the Beer Tits fiasco. Their text updates were upbeat, and the Jumbotron cameraman behaved himself, but I’m still anxious to check in on them and make sure they had a good time.
“Yo, where you off to in such a hurry, brother?” Parker materializes between my stall and Blue’s as I shrug my gear bag onto my shoulder. “You can’t go home early tonight! We have to celebrate. A bunch of us are going to The Brass Monkey for karaoke. Come with. I’ll buy you one of those stinky skunk drinks you like.”
“Fuck no, never again,” I say, earning a laugh from Parker and Blue—both of whom were there the last time I ordered one of The Brass Monkey’s weirder drinks, a cocktail that smelled like roadkill and gave me the worst indigestion of my adult life. I usually have a stomach of iron, but apparently not when it comes to roasted garlic oil mixed with salt brine. “I’m meeting Charlotte and my sister.”
“Bring them,” Grammercy calls from across the room, where he’s running mousse through his hair. “Elly and I are coming out, too. Mimi’s at my mom’s tonight for a sleepover, and ever since the raccoon thing, Elly’s been dying to try that Trash Panda drink Makena and Parker love so much.”
“It’s peak, man,” Parker calls. “You guys are going to love it.” Turning back to me, he adds, “I bet Charlotte would like it, too. She and Mack make pickle juice martinis sometimes when they have rom-com night while I’m gone.”
“Okay, yeah. I’ll ask them, then,” I say, edging toward the door, wanting to be sure we have plenty of time to make our getaway before the rest of the guys are dressed, if needed. Parker and Grammercy are two of my best friends on the team, and I’d love to hang out with them, but Bea comes first. If she isn’t ready for that much “peopling,” we’ll head for home, and I’ll make my apologies later.
She seems better, but my protective instincts are still on high alert.
Still, she’s in talks with her manager about the best way to handle leaving the band, and she just signed with a battle-ax of a publicist, known for protecting her female clients’ reputations when a nasty ex decides bad press is the best revenge. Bea’s also been doing yoga every morning and working on acoustic stuff in her room. She hasn’t let me hear the lyrics yet, but the melodies sound way more like the indie folk-rock stuff she wrote in high school than the hardcore scene she’s been a part of ever since.
She has a new phone, a new number, and has been militantly avoiding social media, so Kai has no idea where she is.
For his part, Kai seems to be lying low. I’ve been keeping a close eye onhissocials, but there hasn’t been an update since the “Thank you, Orlando for a great show!” post last week before their short break. Maybe he’s reflecting on what an absolute shit stain he’s been, but I doubt it.
Just like I doubt he’ll get anywhere close to groveling hard enough to convince Beatrice to stay with the band. She’s promised me that no amount of groveling will ever be enough. She’s done, no matter what Kai has to say for himself. She’s finishing the final two Violet Widow tour dates out of respect for the fans, then putting Kai in her rearview for good.
But fuck, Saturday feels too soon. And she’s leaving for Mobile right as I leave for a game in Vancouver, which means I’ll be thousands of miles away if she gets in trouble. Charlotte keepstelling me that a fantastic plan is in the works to keep Bea safe and she’ll fill me in very soon, but…
Even if the plan is airtight, I don’t like the thought of being that far away right now.
At all.
But aside from faking a stomach bug to get out of the trip, going undercover, and stalking my little sister, I’m not sure what to do about it.
Though I haven’t totally ruled that out…
Yes, I’ll be in deep shit with management if I’m caught, but I’ll be in deeper shit with my own conscience if anything happens to Beatrice because I put my career before protecting her.
By the time I reach the family lounge, my anxiety has banished some of the victory high. But the moment I push through the doors, it’s clear tonight was as much of a shutout off the ice as it was on.
The vibes are immaculate, and everyone seems in good spirits.
Charlotte stands near the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the parking lot, laughing at something Makena just said, looking happy and sexy as ever-living fuck in a clingy green sweater, dark jean skirt that ends just above the knee, and brown leather boots. Elly and Beatrice linger nearby with a third woman I don’t recognize, deep in conversation. Bea flutters her hands while grinning ear to ear, making me think they must be chatting about one of her favorite subjects.
Sure enough, as I draw closer, I hear Elly say, “Yes! She’s so great at art, I just assumedthatwas her ‘thing.’ But the music teacher at her new school says she’s showing amazing progress playing piano by ear just a few weeks into lessons.”
“I’m not surprised,” Bea says, nodding. “Art and music both use pattern recognition. If she’s a natural pattern-finder with astrong need for self-expression, she’s going to blow your mind with how fast she’ll be playing. And probably composing.”
Elly laughs. “Oh, she has a strong need for self-expression, all right. And getting stronger every day.”
“She’s lobbying hard for a baby sister,” Makena pipes up, joining the conversation. “Last I checked, you were up to three ‘Why we Need a Baby’ posters on the fridge, right? When are you going to tell her it’s a fait accompli, woman?”
“What?” Beatrice’s grin widens. “Really? Congratulations!”
