“You absolutely cried,” Marcus says mildly, without even looking up from his drink.
Rhys glares at him. “Et tu, Marcus?”
Marcus just shrugs.
Misha Volkov, our goalie, sits near the window, massive shoulders hunched slightly as he sips blackcoffee.
Silent. Observant. Russian.
Terrifying to opposing teams and, oddly enough, gentle when you least expect it.
He lifts his chin in acknowledgment as I take my seat. “Captain.”
And then there’s Rhys Kincaid.
The groom.
The reason we were all in Vegas in the first place.
Rhys straightens in his seat, scowling. “I do miss her.”
Declan finally looks up, one dark brow raised. “I get it. I miss Ivy, too.”
Connor clutches his chest dramatically. “Oh my God. They’ve both gone soft. We’ve lost them.”
Rhys flips him off. “Shut up.”
Connor isn’t done. He leans forward, eyes gleaming like he’s about to deliver the killing blow.
“And let’s not forget the lap dance.”
Rhys immediately goes still.
Declan’s mouth curves faintly. “Ah, yes.”
Misha’s deep voice adds, “Historic moment.”
Rhys exhales slowly, already bracing himself. “It wasn’t like that.”
Connor slaps his knee. “It was exactly like that.”
He looks at me as I step fully into the cabin. “Captain, you missed it. Most beautiful woman in that entire place walks straight up to him.”
Rhys pinches the bridge of his nose. “Connor—”
“She was wearing basically nothing,” Connor continues, ignoring him. “Red lace. Legs for days. Whole place stopped to watch.”
Declan nods once. “Accurate.”
“And she picks him,” Connor says. “Out of everyone. The groom. Because of course she does.”
Rhys mutters, “I didn’t ask for that.”
Connor grins. “She starts dancing. Real slow. Whole room cheering. And what does our boy do?”
Rhys says nothing.
Connor points at him like he’s presenting evidence in court. “He physically removes her.”
