April is the only one who seems unaffected by the tension in the room, chattering away about her plans for the day while Heather and I move around each other like we’re walking on eggshells.
We can’t keep going on like this, but I’m not sure when we’ll get more time to ourselves so we can hash things out without April overhearing.
Which means that for now, I’m actually relieved when it’s time for me to leave for practice. At least I know that once I get there, I can get out of my own head and focus strictly on the puck and my ability to stop it.
But that’s easier said than done.
It seems like no matter where I go or what I do—even out on the ice—my mind keeps drifting back to last night, then to this morning. Everywhere but here and now.
“What the hell is wrong with you today?” Noah skates up beside me after I let an easy shot slip past my glove during a routine drill. “I know this shit is usually child’s play for you, but that doesn’t mean you get to pretend like you’re a rookie all over again.”
His words sting because they’re true. We both know I’m not playing anywhere near the top of my game today, and I’m the only one who can fix it. The last thing I need is to double myproblems by letting the shit going on at home affect my practice time or my ability to give my all in a game.
“There’s nothing wrong,” I lie. “I just needed to warm up a little more. Let’s reset and do it again.”
He gives me a look that says he isn’t buying the bullshit I’m selling, but I tap my stick against the goal post insistently, three times to center myself. “I said it’s nothing. Let’s go. Let’s run it again.”
The rest of practice goes better once I force myself to focus, but then my day goes to shit again as soon as I see Margo in the locker room doorway. She has her clipboard and camera in hand, and she looks way too cheerful for someone who is about to herd a bunch of sweaty hockey players through a PR event.
“Okay, gentlemen, you have thirty minutes.” She double-checks her watch, then nods to herself. “Get cleaned up and meet me in the conference room. We have about twenty donors to meet and greet, plus some photo ops for social media.”
A groan goes up from most of the guys, but we all know the drill.
I don’t have anything against Margo herself. She’s been great for Noah, and she’s a sweet person, but she also happens to be the face of everything I dislike about my job.
It’s not that I’m ungrateful for the immense opportunity and privilege that comes with playing professional sports, but I want to be on the ice. I want to play hockey. I don’t want to meet new people or take pictures with strangers, or sign autographs that are just going to get sold online nine times out of ten.
At least this event is for a good cause. These people have donated a lot of money to a children’s hospital, so it won’t kill me to shake a few hands and smile for a few photos.
Well, we’ll see about the smiling.
I shower and change into the team polo shirt we’re supposed to wear for these things, then head to the conference room with the rest of the guys.
There are two long tables set up with refreshments, and Denver Aces branding everywhere. A photographer is already positioned in the corner, checking his equipment when we walk in, and small groups of donors are scattered around the room.
I’ve sat through enough of these things to tell at a glance which ones are here for the children’s hospital and which ones have less charitable motives.
Three women in particular catch my attention, and not because I’m interested in talking to them. But they’re going to be hard to ignore now that they’re making a beeline straight for me.
“Grant Parker, it’s so good to finally meet you.” The first one reaches out to shake my hand. She’s blonde, probably late-twenties, and wearing a dress that’s definitely too formal for a casual meet-and-greet. “I’m such a huge fan. That save you made in the playoffs last year was incredible.”
“Thanks.” I shake her hand briefly before letting go.
Her friends flank me on either side, and now I’m boxed in by three very attractive women who are all smiling from ear to ear like I’m the grand prize at the fair.
“We were hoping we’d get to meet you,” the second one says. She’s a redhead with green eyes and the kind of easy smile that’s probably gotten her whatever she wanted her entire life. “You’re even taller in person.”
“And more handsome,” the third one adds with a laugh.
I force what I hope is a polite smile and try to think of something to say that will shut this conversation down without being rude. I’ve dealt with puck bunnies before—women who are more interested in dating a hockey player than actually knowing anything about the sport—but it never gets less awkward.
The blonde leans in a little closer. “So, Grant, do you have any plans after this? We were thinking of grabbing drinks, and we’d love for you to join us.”
Before I can figure out how to say no without sounding like a dick, I catch a glimpse of a familiar figure near the doorway.
Heather.
I’m not sure what she’s doing here, but her hair is pulled up into a messy bun with strands falling out everywhere, and she’s wearing an oversized sweatshirt that has what looks like syrup stains down the front. Or maybe paint? I can’t tell from here, but I’ve seldom seen her this disheveled, and never in public.
