A corner of her mouth lifts, but she doesn’t open her eyes.
“Not just that. They have a…” Her lips purse. “A reputation for being irresponsible. Most have been in the news the last few years for poor partying antics and other issues. So they put a lot of pressure on the owner and upper management to get the team cleaned up or they’d forcibly split the team and sell the assets for parts.” She sighs. “So Meridith came up with a plan to get all the players into a better lens of the limelight.”
All I can manage is a grunt that manages to come off equal parts shocked and irritated. Carys doesn’t say anything else, silence settling between us like an old friend, soft and cozy. I let my gaze travel around the room, absorbing the rest of the space.
The walls are a light beige, nearly light enough to pass for white while adding warmth to the space, keeping it from feeling soulless. It’s oddly similar to the way Carys painted the floral shop. Behind the desk are two simple bookshelves, mostly full of helmets and pucks and other memorabilia. A few binders sit in lone splendor on one of the shelves, and a few fiction books, too. There’s a large team photo that takes up most of the open wall between them, the colors faded. I don’t recognize any of the players. I take a step closer before curbing my curiosity.
Photos fill the wall across from the desk, in perfect view of whoever is sitting there. Almost every single one is of Carys. In some, she’s a young girl, her hair pulled into a simple ponytail, her green eyes bright and excited, her smile wide. It’s the same smile I’ve seen her give nearly everybody she comes across—even when I showed up at Blush & Bloom, hoping to smooth over whatever awkward moment I’d done to have her back off after our first time hanging out, and she was run haggard, clearly tired and worn. One is of her high school graduation and beside it, just as large, is what must be her graduating from college this last spring. Multiple cords adorn her gown and a silver medal sits centered on her chest, the glint of the metal reflecting light back and distorting most of the stamped image in the medallion.Marilyn’s in several of them, too, often within an arm’s reach of Carys, as well as one of the players, the one Carys had said gave her a ride to the arena over a week ago when we first met. Timber Holtz. He’s a winger just like Paxton. They’ve played on the same line a few times in the last two weeks since the trade. In a few photos, the most faded, there’s a blonde woman with the same chin and nose as Carys though her eyes are a bright blue. Her smile is bright, too. In all of them, Carys is no older than a preschooler.
Her entire life is documented here. I can’t help but look between the desk and the photos, trying to imagine the stoic assistant coach sitting here, soaking up all of these memories he has of Carys. The urge to ask her about all of these moments sits on the tip of my tongue, desperate to fall into the quiet of the office. I swallow most of them, picking one out of the group to alleviate my curiosity.
“You’re really close with Meridith?” I ask.
Her eyes flutter open. “Yeah. She stepped in and helped Dad when Mom died. So did Timber. He’s been with the Scorpions longer than I’ve been alive, actually. I think there’s a photo somewhere of him holding me in the hospital.”
For the first time, her voice holds a tinge of sorrow. For her mom? For being around professional hockey her entire life? It’s not an easy time, the scrutiny and instability. Once again, thedesire to soothe her wells up in me. Her eyes flash to the clock on the desk.
“Press is probably going to be wrapping up soon. We should get ready,” she says, slowly getting to her feet. She grabs a bag from the bottom shelf of one of the bookcases. “I packed both the Converse and a set of black pumps. I wasn’t sure the vibes of the party so wanted to make sure I had options.”
“Right.” I drop my bag onto one of the leather chairs. “Probably the pumps if they won’t kill your feet. Pax said these people are really into the glam of everything.”
She nods, pulling out a pair of black velvet heels and tights that are nearly identical to her skin tone. “I can manage that! You have the dress?”
I hand her the crayon costume I made last night from a basic pink t-shirt dress before pulling an almost identical one in a dark green, and we fall into the semi-familiar routine of two women getting ready for an event together.
Chapter Seven
CARYS
“Paxton’s grabbing me another drink really quick. You want him to grab you something?” Billie scream-whispers in my ear, trying her best to be heard over the thumping bass of the DJ’s set even as we move to the music. Her body is close enough to mine that I can feel the subtle brush of her arm against mine. Every single moment of contact has my scent building, has my core tightening, in a way I’m not entirely sure how to handle.
All around us, people dance in groups of two or three. Several couples are kissing, and more than one scent overlays the entire dance floor. Strobe lights pulse, creating an odd, hazy effect that has the entire space feeling otherworldly. The black lights have both of our dresses glowing, the black additions Billie glued to them acting as a negative space. I adjust the headband that my hat’s attached to, helping complete the crayon costume, as a woman jostles behind me.
I shake my head, holding up my nearly empty strawberry daiquiri, my hand covering the top of the glass without—hopefully—making it too obvious. It’s my third of the night, and the buzz I’m feeling is toeing that line between a good timeand very bad decisions ending with a headache in the morning. Billie nods and settles back into Paxton’s chest. He’s had a subtle hand on her waist for most of the night, a silent sentinel in the midst of the raucous crowd swelling as the night inches closer to midnight. The pulsing lights of the club catch his eyes, making them practically glow, and for a moment, I don’t know how to breathe. Between one second and the next, my scent breaks through my lotion, the orchids blending with my citrus-laced perfume.
His nostrils flare, a muscle in his jaw ticking, and then he leans over Billie. She tips her face toward him, a smile softening her features, and he kisses her cheek. A pulse of cypress hits me, the perfume so intoxicating I wish I could drown in it. That pulsing wave of… of I don’t even know what grows stronger just under my skin. My own floral scent surrounds me like a curtain, so strong the moving bodies surrounding me don’t dissipate it. Paxton’s gaze flashes up to me before he wades through the crowd, standing a handful of inches taller than most of the people gathered. Several of the women size him up, but Billie doesn’t seem bothered by the attention he’s garnering, tilting her head back and closing her eyes, mouthing the words of the song.
I quickly down the last bit of my drink, trying to alleviate whatever is happening in my body right now. I breathe through a sharp pang of longing that I still had my suppressors. They might have had crappy side effects, but at least I wasn’t wet and panting for no good reason in the middle of a club, my scent breaking through the strongest concealing lotion the market offers. As if to prove a point, I perfume again, even stronger and more potent than before.
Billie tilts her chin down.
“You all right?” she asks over the music.
My mouth dries out, but I plaster a smile on my face even as I nod.
“Totally fine!”
She starts to say something else, but a new song starts playing, something that went viral on social media because of a show. People from all over the club scream in excitement and rush toward the dance floor. The area around us gets unbearably crowded before the first verse has finished. I twist into Billie, trying to keep from getting completely bombarded by all the new people surrounding us. Bille grabs my hand just as my skin begins to itch, panic clawing up my chest, tracing just under my sternum.
“I’m going to go sit for a minute,” I tell Billie.
I need away from all of these people before I distress scent and end up with way too much attention thrown my way.
She nods and drops her hold on me. I work my way out of the crowd, not breathing until I manage to reach the edge of the dance floor. When I risk a shuddering inhale, I can’t help but grimace. So much for not distress scenting. At least I haven’t attracted any attention from it. I set my empty glass on a high top as I try to orient myself in the room. It takes me a minute to find the staircase tucked in the far corner of the club. A large man stands just to the side of it, his hands tucked in the pockets of his slacks, his eyes intent on the people behind me. When I get closer, he raises an eyebrow. I hold up my left hand so that the wristband is visible, and he wordlessly ushers me onto the stairs. His nostrils flare as I pass by him.
“There’s a room up there if you need a more substantial break,” he murmurs. “All the way to the right. We can call a ride for you, too, if your group’s not ready to leave.”
“Thank you,” I say, my voice more quavery than I like.
