Vaughn (sharp): “Let’s be clear: there’s a difference between playing hard and playing dirty. Tonight, Farrington crossed the line. The hockey world won’t forget what he did.”
Pat (with weight): “He better expect a call from Player Safety first thing in the morning. His hit wasn’t hockey. It was a cheap shot and so damn dangerous. It could cost Seaborneverything.”
[Arena PA announcer, solemn: “Ladies and gentlemen, there will be a 15-minute intermission as officials assess the situation on the ice. Updates will be shared as soon as they become available. We thank you for your patience.”]
1
TEDDY
NOVEMBER 29
Three days earlier
The overpowering scent of cheap perfume on the linen sheets is the only reminder of the woman from last night. I can’t, for the life of me, remember her name. Something with a J or maybe an A? She was pretty, though. Even if she laughed obnoxiously at my half-assed jokes and acted as though we were more than a random hookup.
She’s gone—no surprise there—and I’m unsure if I’m relieved or disappointed. Not because I want a repeat performance. No. I’m disappointed in myself.Again. Another party, another woman. Another night trying to forget a life I chose, but no longer recognize. At least I didn’t sleep with her. Not after she passed out within ten minutes of us arriving at my place. I tucked her in and laid on top of the covers instead, listening to her snoring loudly for hours.
Running a hand through my short hair, I squint against the early afternoon light filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows of my Manhattan loft. The entire place reeks of poordecisions with a side of takeout.Oh yeah, we stopped for tacos on our way here.
Thankfully, I’m not hungover, because I didn’t have a single drop of alcohol last night. Even if the tabloids say otherwise. The staged photos tell a much more scandalous story—Teddy Seaborn, a disgrace to the Seaborn name, stumbles out of a trendy rooftop bar with a beautiful model glued to him, an unfinished whiskey glass in his hand. In reality, it was ginger ale, but they won’t care. Bad press is better than no press. Nothing pisses off Father Dearest more than seeing his pristine name trend for all the wrong reasons.
I’ve always been masterful at disappointing my parents. If it was a sport, I would have a display case full of gold medals. It’s almost fun.Almost. Until the noise fades and I’m left with my intrusive thoughts.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand, reminding me that I don’t have the luxury of ignoring the outside world much longer. It’s probably my close friend and agent, Emerson Merryweather, suggesting another round of last-minute damage control. I disregard the buzzing for now. Instead, I stretch and crack my stiff neck, letting out a sigh that feels weighty for someone with my life. Yeah, I know how that sounds. Poor little rich boy. Cue the tiny violins.
To be honest, the routine of pissing off my parents is getting old. I turned thirty-one this past spring, so it’s been ongoing for years. The parties, the women, and the carefully curated recklessness are all part of my grand façade. One public outing a month during the hockey season, more during the off-season. Champagne and mayhem in place of legacy and traditions. Always on schedule.
My reputation used to be a badge of honor. These days, it’s a cheap polyester costume that no longer fits. Tight in all the wrong places, itchy at the seams.
Across the City, my name is already blasted on gossip sites, including the web version ofPaparazzi Playground, the largest tabloid in the country. Somewhere in Newport, my father is reading said publication and grinding his teeth, while his secretary puts together a slideshow of my latest fuckups and blows him under the desk.
For now, it’s enough. Not good or satisfying, but enough. It’s my revengeful payback for years my parents berated me and made me think I was worth nothing. Because if I’m anything, it’s petty as fuck. I won’t give my goddamn father the satisfaction of thinking he fixed my behavior by making me give up the questionable extracurricular activities. Not while he’s keeping tabs on me. Not even if it's hurting me more than him.
When my phone rings for the fifth time in twenty minutes, I can’t ignore it any longer. I swipe to answer and stare blankly at the skyline as I brace for the impact of the incoming conversation.
“Tell me you at least remember her name,” Em, my agent, greets me in a familiar clipped tone. It’s come from too many years in one of the best private schools on the East Coast and many more spent cleaning up my messes.
“Good morning, my sweet Emerson,” I mutter, dragging a palm along my scalp. “To answer your question: no, I don’t remember her name. I honestly didn’t care enough to memorize it.”
A heavy pause follows the dickish statement. I imagine her standing in her polished Midtown office, wearing a colorful designer suit that she makes look lethal. Her dark curly hair is probably pulled back in a ponytail, and she’s most likely tapping a pen on her planner, trying her best not to throw it.
We’ve known each other since we were kids, growing up together in Hell that taught Latin before algebra and served wine at formal dinners when we were in high school. Her parents are as wealthy as mine, with old money and the expectations that come with it.
“You realize I had to text your father’s assistant to preemptively spin this, right?” she bites out the question. “She answered with a thumbs-up emoji. Athumbs-up, Teddy. Do you know how many PR alarms a thumbs-up from her sets off?”
I pinch the bridge of my pierced nose. “Way too many.”
“So tell me once again why I shouldn’t care about your antics and what you did last night?”
“The woman from last night passed out shortly after we got to mine,” I share, trying to convince us both that the situation isn’t dire. “I didn’t touch her.”
“I suppose I should congratulate you on such gentlemanly behavior,” she states matter-of-factly, voice as dry as my favorite gin. “Unfortunately,Page Sixdoesn’t award gold stars for chivalry.”
“It was ginger ale,” I offer weakly, even though we both know it truly doesn’t matter. “I haven’t had alcohol since the off-season.”
“All they care about is that it wasn’t water. Hell, even if it was, they would claim it was vodka.”
“Point taken.” I stare down at the polished hardwood, tracing the patterns with my gaze. “Why do you still put up with me?”
