Page 26 of The Groupie

Rylee

“Have you been in the executive suite before?” Sheila asks me in a jittery voice.

“No, but I’m not afraid of fancy.”

She looks me over with her brow arched. I’m wearing jeans, an alpine wool sweater, and my sturdiest lightweight hiking boots—courtesy of Moon Boot, an Italian snow boot and après ski wear brand. They generously outfitted the entire U.S. ski and snowboard teams in anticipation of the upcoming Olympics in Italy. The boots are comfortable and help support my ankle while hiding the ace bandage I have wrapped around it.

I push open the door to the suite since Sheila is reluctant and walk inside, keeping low-key without compromising my self-respect. My usual M.O. I don’t hide in corners, but I don’t make a spectacle. The people who need to find me seem to find me—like coaches, scouts, and promotors. Mostly, my performance in the halfpipe and the jump get me all the notice I need even though I was late to the party, not getting my start with the real competition until I was seventeen because I lived in the city and not the mountains.

But I’ve caught up since then, boarding five out of seven days a week, weight training, and practicing with my high school gymnastics team on their skill cushions and practice mats, tumbling and practicing my landings mostly off the vault to simulate the air and get my body movements in synch.

Now, I’m known for my exceptional body control in doing my tricks off the halfpipe and big air jumps. The poor high school gymnastics coach begged me to switch to gymnastics from boarding, but I’ll take the wildness of the mountain and the big outdoors over the confines of a gym. Plus, I felt sorry for the gymnasts because of the excessive attention to body size they put up with.

Eyes are on us now, and I crack a Mona Lisa type smile, not too enthusiastic, but enough so you can’t complain that I’m unfriendly.

“Ladies.” A man nods. “Welcome. I understand you’re guests of Mr. Tomas.”

Sheila bobs her head as she squeezes my arm.

“Don’t mind us. We’ll just take our seats over here,” I say. I flash my smile wider to lessen the blow that I want nothing to do with them, especially a conversation about how we know Mr. Tomas. A woman wraps her arm around the older man, steering his attention away from us, and she’s my new angel.

Sheila takes a seat next to me after helping herself to a pile of food and drinks that she brings with her.

“Don’t you want something to drink?”

“No.” I stop myself from saying that I don’t even really want to be here at all, but the Zambonis finally leave the rink, and that must be a cue of some sort because Brawlers players shoot out of the gate onto the ice with surprising speed. They glide around the rink one after the other while the fans cheer. My gut tumbles as if I care when I spot Zak, number eight.

When he stops near the goal and tilts his helmet back from his face to glances in our direction, it’s my heart that tumbles next like a domino. For no good reason.

“There’s Zak,” Sheila says, waving as if he can see us.

Who knows? Maybe he can. The thought makes me stiffen as I keep my hands in my lap even as my eyes stay pinned to him.

She nudges me with her elbow. “I wonder if he can see us. This is exciting. These seats are awesome. This box is rad-iculous. I hope they win. I hope Zak scores a goal. Do you think he’ll take us out somewhere fancy after the game? I was so surprised to get his text about the tickets. I wasn’t surprised that he gave one to you—”

“Wow, woah, there Sheila. Slow down. Did you swallow a fast-talking auctioneer before you came tonight?”

She laughs. “No, but I wouldn’t mind swallowing—”

“Never mind. I don’t want to know.”

She nudges me again. “You must have had a good time with Zak the other night.” She wiggles her brows, aiming an expectant glance at me.

I nod. I’m not a kiss and tell type. But oddly, I like Sheila. She’s cool in a very uncool way, raw and full of enthusiasm. She watches me, still waiting for me to elaborate.

“What?” I say, turning my eyes back to the ice, I can’t keep my eyes off him because I feel this unbroken invisible thread keeping us connected. The tug of that same connection I’ve felt since I first sat on his lap tethers me to him now, and I wonder how or why.

Then I force myself to look away when Sheila sighs.

“Guess you’re not going to talk details, are you?”

“No. But then, you already have your own first-hand experience, so there’s no need.”

“Not exactly,” she says slowly. Surprise lifts my brows, quickly followed by skepticism. She goes on. “I went home with him once a while back, and we tumbled around a little, but as soon as he realized I was a little more than tipsy, he refused to do anything but give me coffee and a cab ride home. I wish I remembered more details, but the night’s a little fuzzy.”

“Gotcha.” What I got from her words is that Zak Tomas is an honorable guy. The bastard. I’m not interested in anything but his body. And maybe his sense of humor. I could care less that he’s honorable…except that it’s good to know he won’t try to take advantage of me—I say try because that would never happen. I would never let it happen because I’m always in control.

One hundred percent in control. At all times… Sort of. The exception is when he has me exactly at that moment of release…