“Stop ruining your reputation.” She turns and walks away, heels clicking across the concrete until she disappears through the doors.
Practice passes by fast, and the ride back to Manhattan is a blur.
Dyson
Having a small get-together. Come over.
Dyson runs a financial firm that helps billionaires figure out what to do with their money. He’s one of the few people in my life who doesn’t give a shit about hockey, even though he’s Nick Banks’s older brother. He’s the CEO of one of the largest financial firms that invests for major corporations and other billionaires. I can’t imagine the stress.
Patterson
Maybe.
Dyson
Louis is in town. We’re gonna drink bourbon and shoot some pool.
Louis is the crown prince of Montclaire, a small country in Europe. He’s a charming disaster who makes headlines wherever he goes. When Louis escapes his kingdom, and visits New York, he usually stays with Dyson. I’ve stopped being surprised when he shows up.
Patterson
What time?
Dyson
Now.
Patterson
Need to take a shower, and then I’ll be there.
Once I’m home, I wash away the practice time and then get dressed. Dyson also lives in The Park, several floors above me.It’s a high-rise building on Billionaire’s Row, full of luxury lofts and penthouses. Two security guards flank me as soon as I walk into his foyer. They give me the once-over before allowing me into Dyson’s place.
As soon as I walk in, I’m handed a glass of expensive bourbon.
“You look like shit,” he says.
“You’re really one to talk,” I tell him, noticing his exhaustion and the dark circles under his eyes.
His luxury two-story home is full of modern art and furniture that looks like it’s never been sat on. I follow him to the pool table, where Louis is staring out the large windows at the New York skyline. He’s six-three and lean from years of polo and scandal, with eyes so blue that they’re almost unreal.
“Patterson Cross.” He flashes a smile, equal parts charm and trouble. “You look like a man who’s been going through it.”
Dyson picks up his stick and returns to their game.
“Prince Louis Adrian,” I say, using his entire name because it annoys him.
“How’s life been treating you?” Louis asks in a European accent that’s hard for me to place. It’s not quite British or French. Maybe a mixture of the two?
“Can’t complain,” I tell him as a striped ball sinks into a corner pocket.
“Saw several pics of you posted online,” Dyson says. “Did you hear what they were saying?”
I groan, realizing the photos from Thursday might have been a bigger deal than I thought. “No. I’ve had no time.”
Dyson nods toward his phone on the bar. “TMZ,Page Six,Deadspin. You’re everywhere. ‘Angels Star Spotted Leaving Exclusive Club with Mystery Brunette.’ They’re running with it.”
“Nothing happened with her. She was drunk, and I walked her to her car.”
