“But I’m your friend before I’m your boss. You know that, right?” He waited for me to nod. “As your friend . . .” Finn’s expression softened. “Be careful, okay? I don’t want to see you get hurt.”
“C’mon, Finn, there’s nothing to get hurt about. He’s just a dude who likes football.”
“Really? That’s what that was?”
“Finn, he’s straight. He’s had girlfriends, probably has a girl lined up in every town they play in. There are photos of him with women all over the internet.” I forced a laugh. “This is just a famous guy who remembers my football career. That’s all, nothingmore.”
Finn nodded slowly, still staring. “Okay,” he said. “Please . . . keep your guard up, okay? Celebrity attention can feel like something it isn’t, and I don’t want you reading more into this than what’s there.”
“I’m not,” I said. “I promise.”
He patted my shoulder, then headed back toward the office, leaving me alone with my mind filled with bright eyes and a wide smile.
Chapter 4
Skyler
The scream that echoed through the Calgary Marriott at 6:47 a.m. could only mean one thing.
Murph had struck again.
I was already awake. Years of early practices had ruined my ability to sleep past seven, so I had a front-row seat when Erik’s door burst open and six-foot-three of furious Swedish muscle stormed into the hallway wearing nothing but boxers and a look of pure murder.
“MURPHY! GOD DAMN IT!”
Erik’s hair was . . . wrong.
That was the only way to describe it.
He kept his head shaved close to his scalp, a practical choice for a guy who spent half his life wearing a helmet; but now his entire head gleamed under the hallway lights, sticky and amber-colored,and plastered to his skull.
I stepped into the hallway as Tyler emerged from his room, phone already raised.
“Please tell me you’re recording,” I said.
“Way ahead of you, Cap. I won’t miss a deliciousminute of this.”
Erik pounded on Murph’s door with both fists. “Open this fucking door, you tinyskitstövel! I know you are in there!”
“What the hell’s askitstövel?” Tyler whispered.
I shrugged. “Maybe one of those meatballs at IKEA? No idea.”
The door cracked open, and Murph’s round, innocent face appeared in the gap. “Oh, hey, Erik. Something wrong? You’ve got a little . . .” He gestured at his own head. “Something in your hair.”
“YOU PUT MAPLE SYRUP IN MY SHAMPOO BOTTLE!” His voice boomed so loud I worried someone might call security.
“Did I?” Murph’s eyes went wide with theatrical confusion. “That doesn’t sound like me.”
“It soundsexactlylike you, you little shit turd!”
“I’m offended by this accusation. I would never waste maple syrup. That’s . . . un-Canadian.” Murph paused. “Was it at leastthe real stuff? I only buy authentic Quebec maple—”
Erik lunged.
Murph yelped and tried to slam the door, but Erik’s massive hand caught it. What followed was a brief and undignified scuffle that ended with Murph in a headlock.
“How do you like it, huh? How do you like being sticky?”
