Miles drums his fingers on the counter, his expression turning serious. “You could, Rowan…but this is for your own good.”
And there it is. That captain voice. The tone Miles uses when shit’s going sideways in a game. The tone that tells me I’ve crossed a line. It has the reaction in me he’s probably hoping for—I sit up straighter.
“What’s going on?” I ask, all focus now.
Miles draws a deep breath. “Think of this,” he says, gesturing to all the guys who have my back on the ice in every game, “as a team intervention. That’s why we’re all here.”
A holiday intervention? I swallow uncomfortably, my arms tensing. I don’t like the sound of this. And I sure as hell don’t like the sound of Wham!’s “Last Christmas”playing in the background, the lyrics about someone giving away the heart they were given hitting a little too close to home.
“An intervention,” I repeat, my voice sharp with disbelief. “For what, exactly?”
Max raises his glass like he’s making a toast. “You’ve had it rough in the romance department. I get that. You were served a shit platter on top of a shit sandwich on top of a shit ice cream sundae.” There’s a touch of sympathy in Max’s voice, the sound of a man who’s been put through the romance wringer too. He pauses, eyes locked on me, then says bluntly. “It’s time to start over. And you need this.”
“I don’t need this,” I counter, since I’m not like him; Ihaven’t found a silver lining to love the way he has, “any more than I need a shit sandwich.”
The guys laugh, but Miles doesn’t break his serious expression as he takes over the conversation—I mean,intervention—again. “You do, man,” he says, clearly meaning it from the bottom of his heart. “That’s why we all pitched in. We want a new chance for you.”
“For fuck’s sake,” I mutter, irritation rising like a wave. I’m pissed now. But in the way I get mad when I fail at blocking a shot that sneaks into the net. “Why?”
Asher steps in, calm as ever, warm as the sun on a cold day. “The Christmas Eve gala is coming up. It’s the team’s biggest fundraiser of the year.”
Right, I know that. The Nutcracker Auction kicks off the season of fundraising for the team and the charities we support. “So?”
“So, you need a date,” Tyler says matter-of-factly.
I flap a hand toward the godforsaken, overdecorated Snowflake Room I was in earlier tonight. “I didn’t have a date here tonight. I didn’t have one to the Christmas Eve gala last year. Or the few years before.”
“We know,” Miles says, sounding exasperated. “We’re aware.”
“Then what’s the problem? Why do I need a date? Dating is for other people.”
And mostly, that’s true. I’ll go out now and then, but I’m done handing over my heart. After that brutal Christmas almost five years ago when my ex eviscerated the organ in my chest, I put a hard stop at the third date. No attachments, no risks. The gala is a big fucking deal. You bring girlfriends, wives, partners—not some woman you met last week on an app.
“The problem,” Miles begins, his tone thoughtful, like a teacher, “is that every year at the Christmas Eve gala, when we want to have a good time with our wives and girlfriends and enjoy the mistletoe with them, we have to take turns babysitting you and listening to your hate list instead.”
Ouch. “Dig the knife in a little deeper, why don’t you?”
“Rowan. Seriously. I mean it,” Miles says.
I peer at my back, miming tugging out a blade. “Can you all see the stab wound? It’s pretty bloody.”
“Dude, youdohave a hate list and we’re all subjected to it,” Tyler says, like he’s been champing at the bit to make this point for eleven consecutive months.
“You weren’t even at the gala last year,” I point out.
“But I heard all about it.AndI was at the end-of-season picnic with Sabrina, and we were definitely subjected to your hate list then too,” Tyler adds, digging even deeper with his knife.
“I do not have a hate list,” I protest.
The whole group erupts into laughter.
“I hate holiday music,” Hugo says, imitating me. “I hate Mariah Carey. I hate wrapping paper. I hate tinsel.’”
“You even hatemycool tunes,” Wesley chimes in, chest puffed, like he’s ready to bro battle me. “Plus, you hate tinsel? What the fuck, man?”
“Let’s not forget—you complain about commercialism,” Max adds.
“That’s a valid complaint. The world doesn’t need more stuff,” I say. Or maybe I shout it.
