They free me at the spa, some place called Haven on Fillmore Street that Ivan goes to for massages. He knows the owner and asked her to keep it open late for a private party.
I wouldn’t exactly call it a party, but I also know better than to try to escape a team prank. That’ll only make them prank me harder next time.
The second the tie falls off my wrists, I’m grabbing my phone and texting her.
Lake: I’ll come over as soon as this spa torture is done.
Remy: Good luck with your nuts
I roll my eyes and pocket the phone. I’ve got to find a way to turn the tables on them. And if it involves me doing something I hate, so be it.
Once we’re in the locker room, I clear my throat. “Listen up, boys,” I say, and the guys turn toward my voice. Ivan,Riggs, Miller, and Corbin. “You can all get in on the bet under one condition.”
“Name it,” Riggs says.
Twenty minutes later, they’re all in bathrobes, parked in lounge chairs, and having their toenails painted purple—our team color.
It’s so goddamn satisfying.
On many levels, because even though these guys are a bunch of clowns, they’re my clowns. My family. My brothers on the ice, and, I suppose, off it.
The spa kidnapping doesn’t end in the chair. Before I know it, I’m flat on my stomach, getting my sore muscles worked over.
At least this part isn’t so bad, except it’s getting late. I’m growing antsier. It’s probably past midnight. Even if I can see Remy, it’ll be too late totalk. Tofigure us out.
She’ll probably be asleep when I arrive at her home. I’ll just slide into bed with her and hold her.
That would be enough. You shouldn’t have important conversations late into the night anyway.
As the masseuse digs her thumbs into my lower back, I map out a plan. After the wedding. Yep, that’s when I’ll ask Remy out for real. As I’m twirling her on the dance floor in that mouth-wateringly sexy stunner of a dress she’ll have on.
And…why the hell am I still on this massage table?
I pop up, grabbing the sheets around my waist so I’m not indecent but still startling the massage therapist. “Sorry, I have to go.”
“Oh, okay,” she says, then scurries out of the room. I wrap a towel around my waist, and march back toward the locker room, passing a room on the way where my teammates are gathered around a chalkboard, picking options for facials.
“Gotta go,” I announce.
They spin around. Words likewhat the fuckandno you don’tfall from their mouths. I hold up a hand.
“Love you guys,” I say, speaking louder, cutting through the noise, saying that to them for the first time—these assholes I’d go to war with and for, and I do in every single game. “But I’d rather be someplace else.”
And with that admission, they stop protesting.
They wave me out of there.
47
MAKE IT LAST
LAKE
I don’t bother returning to the arena to get my car. I catch a Lyft and head straight for her place, texting to see if she’s still up.
Remy: Barely. But come over anyway. Here’s the code.
She sends it next and it feels like Christmas morning. She gave me the code to her house. She made me a cat tower. She came to my game. She sent me hummingbird pictures. She gave my dad a puzzle. She talked to him about hard things.
