I sit back down. My knees are jelly. Ethan is patting my arm like I’m the one who needs comforting.
“Daddy’s okay,” he tells me solemnly. “He doesn’t break.”
“Tell that to my blood pressure, buddy.” A kiss lands on his temple. “Your dad is going to give me a stroke before I’m thirty.”
The player who hit Grayson is being helped up by a teammate, both of them looking back at Grayson with murder in their eyes. The number on the player’s jersey is twenty-two. He’s broad through the chest, a little taller than Grayson.
“Who is that?” I ask Brody quietly.
Brody glances at me. The grin from earlier has gone.
“Brent Taylor.”
The name is meaningless to me till Brody adds, “He’s Vanessa’s husband.”
My body stiffens. Brent has lined himself up at the faceoff circle, helmet back on.
“Is she here?” The question slips out without my permission.
Brody snorts under his breath. “Vanessa? She’s at every one of his games, front row when she can manage it.” He angles his chin toward the far side of the arena without lifting his hand. “Eleven o’clock, behind the away bench, fur coat.”
I make myself look.
The first thing I notice is the hair, pale blond, almost white in the rink lights, falling in soft waves over the shoulders of a coat I’m pretty sure was made out of an actual animal. Her dress underneath is dark green and fitted. Pale skin that will photograph well under these lights. Full lips painted a deep red I can see from this distance with cheekbones sharp enough to cut a man on impact.
If I were a man, I would also do something stupid for her, possibly something prosecutable.
I look down at my own clothes.
Dark jeans, a white blouse, Brooke’s old gray coat over the back of the bench because the publicist said casual girlfriend, don’t try too hard. Then there is also the fact that I’ve been wearing my own clothes. The publicist clearly has never had to compete with a small Russian aristocracy on ice. My ears are bare. The braid in my hair is coming apart at the bottom, and my boots are scuffed from the salt on the parking lot.
I touch one earlobe before I can stop myself.
“So that’s his type,” I murmur.
Brody glances at me, eyebrows knit. “What?”
“Just trying to figure out where the publicist slotted me. Probably under charity case.”
“Carver. Don’t compare yourself to her. She’s got nothing on you. You’re beautiful on the inside.”
He’s grinning at the last part.
“Are you calling me ugly?” I scowl.
He waggles his brows at me. “Did I say that?”
“If I wasn’t sure I’d break my toe, I would kick you.” I glare at him.
He just laughs and nudges me. “You’re overthinking.” He tilts his head in Vanessa’s direction. “All that is a façade. She is rotten inside. Grayson is head over heels for you. You could wear a potato sack and he would still think you are the hottest thing since sliced bread.”
“You really need to stop trying to make me feel better, Brody,” I mutter. “Somehow I just feel worse.”
He sighs. “Women.”
I don’t pay attention to him. I have never been one to care about my looks. But compared to her, I look scraggly. In terms of looks and dressing, I can’t hold a candle to Vanessa. I look nothing like her, even in the most basic terms.
Is that why Grayson is so comfortable with me? Because I am the complete opposite of his ex?
