“Mr. Prince.” Bennett grabs for my dad’s hand, pumping it once, twice. “Good to see you this afternoon. And these must be the guests of honor.” Bennett greets the couple speaking with my father, a man and woman in their early forties. Standing quietly next to them is a blonde-haired girl in a Coastal Crushers jersey, probably about five years old. She gazes up at Bennett in awe, like she’s seeing Santa Claus or something.
I expect the typical long-winded convo about hockey and how great of a player Bennett is among the adults. But Bennett notices the little girl and drops down to his knees so the two of them are eye-level. “And you must be the VIP.”
She smiles shyly at him.
“You brought Lil Rip with you.” He points at the cute shark stuffed animal she’s clinging, the Coastal Crushers mascot. Then he leans in closer to the girl, stage-whispering. “He’s my favorite, too. Don’t tell Riptide.”
Well, that was surprising.
She beams at Bennett and now I know why he’s the Steele the ticket holders wanted to see today. Obviously, their little girl is a huge Bennett fan.
That makes one of us.
“And this is my daughter, Tori. She’s helping manage the team through the transition.” My father motions at me, bringing me into the conversation.
I step forward, giving the couple a tight smile. “Goodto see you. Thanks for supporting the team. We’re looking forward to a great season!”
As long as I can keep Bennett on the rails for a few more weeks.
“We adore hockey,” the woman says, cutting her eyes at Bennett and her daughter. I practically see the hearts bouncing in her gaze.
Good grief. I didn’t know I was attending a Bennett Fan Club meeting.
“It’s a great sport,” Dad says. “The best.”
“We’re thrilled about the team’s move down to Florida. Nothing beats the beach and hockey, am I right?” The man elbows my dad and I nod, playing along.
“For sure,” I say.
Personally, I was a fan of the big city, but none of the recent decisions concerning the team have been about me. As long as the family’s investment is protected, that’s what matters.
“We’re huge fans of the Steele brothers.” The man whips out a glossy media photo of the triplets on the ice. “Would you mind signing this?” He shoves the picture at Bennett and Bennett smiles, producing a Sharpie from the pocket of his joggers.
The man brought a Sharpie with him.
I hold my eye roll in check as Bennett signs the photo, glad-handing the ticket holders. I signal to a waiter for a drink and he brings two water bottles over, one for me, one for Bennett. I hold the plastic bottles and fume silently while Bennett makes small talk.
A photographer spots Bennett, and he hovers nearby in anticipation of a shot. My father catches sight of the camera, sensing a PR opportunity.
“Photo op!” Dad says, bringing the couple in close to Bennett and stepping aside.
“No, no. We need you in the picture!” the man protests, waving my father back over. “You too, Tori.”
Begrudgingly, I inch my way into the group. My dad’s to the left of the couple, with Bennett in the middle and the little girl in front. I move toward my father, but the photographer catches my elbow, steering me over to Bennett. I feel Bennett’s gaze on me, the side of my face burning as his cologne fills my nostrils.
Whatever you do, avoid eye contact.
“There. Better symmetry.” He tilts his head side to side, satisfied, then takes a few steps back.
The photographer lifts his camera and Bennett’s arm instinctively winds around me. His hand’s wholly appropriate, resting at the small of my back, but I still stiffen under the weight of his huge palm. Heat permeates through the silky fabric of my blouse, directly beneath his fingers.
Flash, flash, flash.
I force a smile, muscles tense.
Act natural. It’s just for optics.
As soon as the lens lowers, Bennett drops his hand. He maneuvers out of my space so quickly, I wonder if I imagined it being there at all.
