“Yikes,” Elliott tilts forward, his lips tugged down. “That should’ve been an easy stop.”
I force a smile, ignoring the way my stomach twists with nerves. I can’t say with 100 percent certainty that Cameron’s glaring at our suite since his mask is covering his face, but I swear I can feel the weight of his gaze, heavy and accusing, as the players line up for faceoff at center ice. His shoulders are so rigid I can see it from here, and his grip on his stick is too tight.
Within a matter of minutes, it happens again.
He misses another soft shot, and this time he doesn’t just tap his stick. Nope. He winds up and smashes it against the goal post so hard it splinters in half.
I let out an audible gasp, my heart plummeting.
“Holy shit,” Maya says with wide eyes.
“You can say that again,” Elliott agrees.
Jake skates over, but Cam ignores his teammate, waving wildly at the bench for a new stick, his movements agitated. I spend the last few minutes of the period focusing on breathing, living in a carefully constructed bubble where Cameron letting the puck intwiceisn’t because the sight of me in some other player’s jersey distracted him. That would be ridiculous… right?
The protective bubble, unfortunately, pops quickly.
Sloane darts into the suite, out of breath, wearing an apologetic smile. She strides straight over to me and clears her throat. “Hey, I hate to interrupt you, but we have a bit of a situation.”
“Is the situation Cameron?”
“Great guess.” Her mouth pulls down into a combination of a wince and a frown. “Do you mind coming with me for a second?”
“Want some backup?” Maya asks quietly.
I shake my head, excuse-me-ing my way through the suite and into the hallway. Sloane leads me several feet away, where it’s quieter and more secluded.
“What’s going on?” I ask, toying with my earring.
She runs a hand through her perfectly straight brown hair, then opens her mouth. She shuts it again quickly, then repeats the action as if physically struggling to push words out. Finally, she lets out a slow breath and meets my eyes. Her professional mask slips a little, legitimate concern shining through. Not for the team’s optics, but for Cameron’s feelings.
“You know Gigi cheated on him, right?”
I nod, my stomach slowly sinking.
“And that it was with his teammate?”
I nod again, but even as I do, ice crystallizes in my chest.
She gives me a sad smile. “You’re wearing that teammate’s jersey right now.”
“What?” I screech, the sound echoing down the hallway. I clutch at the hem of the jersey and yank it up over my head with zero grace and a boatload of panic. The fabric catches on my ponytail, then my earring, and I elbow myself in the face at least once, but I finally get it off. Chest heaving with exertion, I hold the offending garment away from my body like it’s contaminated.
Emotionally speaking, it absolutely is.
It’s not until I’m standing there, panting, jersey dangling from my fingertips, that I realize I’m in a public hallway wearing nothing but my bra and jeans.
Tonight is really, truly, spectacularly, not my night.
“Oh, for the love of—” Sloane mutters under her breath and quickly shrugs out of her blazer. She thrusts it at me with the exasperated efficiency of a woman who’s dealt with far too many PR disasters. “Put this on.”
I drop the cursed jersey on the floor and yank my hand back like it burned me, then quickly shove my arms through the sleeves of the blazer.
“Now you understand,” Sloane says, watching me struggle with the buttons because my chest is much larger than hers, “why his head’s not in the game.”
The words hit me like a physical blow. Shit. Of course it isn’t. How else would a man react to a reminder like that?
“Gigi set me up,” I blurt, my face flaming. “Someone spilled drinks on me and she offered to have a jersey sent up. I didn’t know she’d?—”
