Knight:NO SPOILERS!!!
Tristan:The book was published in 1818.
Tristan:You have had more than TWO HUNDRED YEARS in which to read the novel.
Knight:I’m only thirty!
Lenyx:Owen, ignore these fools. I have Venmo open rn. Tell me how much it’ll cost to spring you out of the clink.
Adler:You’re too pretty to survive in prison. We fear for your starfish.
Owen:I’m at home.
Lenyx:House arrest?
Bowen sends the flailing Kermit GIF. I’m not sure what he’s going for there, but since we’re using situationally inappropriate memes, I respond with a picture of Grumpy Cat.
This, of course, encourages everyone to drop their favorite memes in the chat, and then Cam arrives with the pet videos. From there, we all send pictures of our own pets, past and present, until Viktor ruins it by sending a photo of whatmightbe a human elbow, but nobody can really tell for sure, and it’s all downhill from there.
I click away from the chat, back to the open tab on my phone’s browser where I have the worst of the viral videos queued up. I watch it on loop, letting my food grow cold, while my stomach churns with shame.
I don’t look like myself in that clip. At least, that’s what I tell myself. The man in the video does look familiar, though.
But the more I watch it, the harder that is to believe. There’s a moment right before it happens where everything narrows. The rest of the ice drops away, and it’s just him in my space and the need to get him out of it. I know that feeling. I’ve trained it, controlled it, kept it on a short leash for years. In the clip, it slips. Just enough. My grip tightens on the phone as I watch it again, that same half-second where I stop thinking and start reacting. It’s not the hit that bothers me. It’s how easy it looks. How familiar. Like it’s always been there, waiting for an excuse.
“Fuck,” I whisper again. I’ve hardly accomplished anything today, but I feel wrung out.
I’m on my eighth, or possibly ninth, replay of the clip when my phone rings. It’s not my mom this time, though. It’s Renee from the Venom.
“Hey, what’s up?” I answer, trying to sound as contrite as possible.
Her voice is hard. “Get to the arena now. Sergio wants to go over the fallout.”
And by Sergio, she means Dante.
Fallout can mean a lot of things in this League, and none of them are good. Fines, suspensions, meetings where people who don’t play the game explain it back to you like you don’t understand your own job. Worst case, it sticks. Becomes the thing people think of first when they hear my name. I push that thought aside, but it doesn’t go far.
“On my way.” I pop the rest of my food in the fridge for now, let Shutout totter through the backyard for a quick pee, and grab my keys. There’s nothing to worry about. I’ve already been harsher with myself than anyone in the front office will be.
Wait. What am I saying? I’m, like, seventy percent sure that Dante has killed at least one person in the course of his career.When I started with the team, the guys legit had a cookout where they told scary stories about Dante Giovanetti around a fire pit while we made s’mores. It is entirely within the realm of possibility that he’ll personally beat me with a cane or have me fitted for a pair of cement shoes or have my nude portrait displayed on a billboard in downtown Las Vegas. According to the legends, he’s done all this and more.
No point in prolonging the inevitable, though. I’ve taken worse hits than this and skated away without a second thought, but those are physical. You ice them, you shake them off, you get back out there. This is different. This follows you off the ice, into every conversation, every headline, every look from someone who’s already decided who you are. I lock the door behind me and head for the car, already feeling the weight of it settle in before I turn the engine over.
The only way to end up in even hotter water is to ignore a summons, so I high-tail it to my car, and thence my certain doom, as fast as my legs will carry me.
Chapter Four
Remy
While there is no guaranteed way to predict a new client’s ranking on the Remy Callahan Petty Bullshit Scale, there are steps I can take to ensure my client knows I didnotcome to play.
Step one: Dress for business, not bullshit. I’ve learned the hard way that people decide what kind of professional you are before you ever open your mouth. If I walk in looking like I’m here to be liked, I’ve already lost. If I look like I expect to be taken seriously, I at least have a fighting chance.
This is a scale, and the parameters shift depending on the circumstance. If I were showing up to an office, I’d be rocking a pantsuit and heels. But I don’t want to give this grumpy goalie any ammunition, much less an excuse to peek down my top. I go business casual for this meeting in a fitted white blouse, loose slate slacks, all the way down to my sensible flats, in case Owen Rourke gives me the runaround and I have to hustle to keep pace.
Step two: Walk like you own the place. I breeze through the door of the arena with my bag slung over my shoulder and the files Ezra gave me tucked under my arm, ready to reference at a moment’s notice.
I make a beeline for the elevators, but there’s already a woman waiting in front of them, pacing back and forth. Her outfit is similar to mine—see, IknewI was on the right track—aside from her heels that clack against the floor with each anxious step. She keeps lifting her thumbnail to her mouth, as ifshe wants to bite it, registering her manicure, and lowering her hand again, only to repeat the process again a few seconds later.
