Page 95 of Interference

“Excellent.” His amusement faded a little, and he rolled his eyes. “Fair warning, they do have some reporters there each year. And there’s this one guy—Cole Tandy. Ugh.” Anthony tsked. “I fucking hate that asshole.”

Alarm surged through me. “So I should avoid him?”

“Everyone should avoid him. Always.” He made a face. “He’s one of those gossip columnist, shock jock wannabe types, so he’s always sniffing around for dirt.” Anthony rolled his eyes again. “He’s harmless, but he is so fucking annoying.”

I smirked. “I suppose flirting with him to distract him would be counterproductive?”

“Oh, you can try.” Anthony brought up his glass again. “But I’d be afraid he’d take you up on it.”

“Eww. No, thanks. But Casino Night—that does sound like fun.”

“Cool.” He flashed me a smile that was surprisingly sweet despite his silly drunk mood. “I think we’ll have a lot of fun.”

Hell yeah. And if it wasn’t until February, then I had time to get my head around the idea of being in a big, crowded place.

And if he wants me there in February…

Then he really does want me here until then. Maybe even after that.

I slowly pushed out a breath and smiled into my wineglass. Even through the alcohol, that post-battle peace sank in all over again.

I wasn’t home. I didn’t have a home. Not yet.

But I was here.

And everything about this was the best place I’d been in a long, long time.

Chapter 27

Anthony

The Seattle Bobcats utterly stomped Portland on their own ice. It was always satisfying to beat a rival in front of their fans, especially when it was a decisive 6-3 win. Games like that were spectacular for morale.

It was a great game for me, too. My season had started out as a shitshow, but I was finally finding my footing. I’d racked up two assists, and Nova had almost knocked me out when he’d hugged me to celebrate my second goal of the season. I’d wound up on my ass, laughing my head off before I got up to fist bump the rest of my team.

When Coach handed me my goal puck after the game, he’d said, “Tonight should have the commentators eating their words.” With a clap to my shoulder, he’d added, “I’m sure eating mine.”

I’d just laughed, holding on to that puck like it was the very first of my career. It wasn’t even my first of the season, but I appreciated that he’d thought to hang on to it for me. I wasn’t stupid—I knew Coach had been concerned about me, and there’d been rumblings of sending me down or trading me. Hopefully tonight, not to mention my last three games, would put all that to bed. All I needed to do now was keep this up for the rest of the season and prove it wasn’t a fluky lucky streak. I wasn’t worried. I felt so much more like me out there than I had in a long time. That wasn’t going away.

By the time we all poured into the hotel lobby afterward, everyone was pumped and ready to stay up late celebrating. As luck would have it, there was an awesome bar across the street that we usually visited when we were in town, and they had pretty good food, too.

As the guys started filtering back outside to head over, D’Angelo looked at Simon and me. “Hey, you guys coming?”

I opened my mouth to ask Simon if we were, but he spoke first.

“No, not tonight.” Wrapping his arm around my shoulders, he smiled. “It’s date night.”

A playful “Aww” went up from our teammates at the same time my heart sank into my stomach.

What could I do, though? We had to keep up this stupid act, and it would raise a lot of questions if I looked at Simon and said, “What the hell do you mean we’re doing date night?” Even if I did it in a joking way.

The guys continued outside, and Simon and I headed for the elevators. All my exuberance from the game drained away as we waited for the doors to open. I wanted to be out celebrating with my team. Not… holing up in the room because Simon was using “date night” as an excuse not to go out. What the fuck, anyway? Sometimes he didn’t feel like joining the team, and in the past, he’d just kiss me on the cheek, tell me to have a good time, and send me on my way. Why were we doing this bullshit?

But what the hell could I do? Argue with him? Storm out and join the team at the bar, raising all kinds of questions about why I’d bailed on date night?

We stepped into the elevator, and even before the doors shut, I was almost overcome with claustrophobia. It had little to do with the box we were encased in, though. That just underscored this suffocating, closed-in feeling of being unable to escape. We could’ve been standing alone at center ice in a deserted arena, and my skin still would’ve been crawling as my heart pounded behind my shirt and tie.

I can’t get away from you.

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