Page 10 of Break the Ice
I leave him standing flabbergasted with Mr. Blackman.
Elsewhere, the party’s descending into chaos all on its own. A team exec sucks tequila out of the navel of an Ice Girl, and settled into a corner, two men in dark suits exchange a wad of cash and shake hands.
Yet these are the assholes that claim they want to fix the team’s image. They’ve spent hours sitting in meetings about how to repair our brand to win back over fans. They’ve preached and lectured and hired yet another fucking PR manager. The same woman who’ll be on her knees for Hawk by the end of the night.
I snort. “What a fucking joke.”
Kai’s off on the other side of the room in the middle of a conversation with Woodrow Channing, probably the most famous golfer in the world. Woody’s hopped up on a cocktail of uppers and downers, sweating bullets, barely able to slur out a sentence.
I pull out my phone and hold it up.
It takes a moment for Kai to notice me lurking off to the side. Even longer for Woody’s doped-out ass to put two and two together and realize they’re no longer alone.
He turns toward me, a bead of sweat dripping off his brow, and greets me by the wrong name.
“Colt! Th-there you are… was just… saying… where’d Colt go?” he stammers. He brings his beverage to his lips and misses by a quarter of an inch, spilling what looks like whiskey down his front. “How the heck ya been, man? Staying outta trouble?”
Kai and I meet each other’s gaze. Kai’s maybe the only person at this party who I can stand for longer than ten seconds. He shares almost as much contempt for these people as I do.
We understand each other—I thrive off causing chaos and he thrives off observing the chaos I’ve caused. A left winger often playing first line with me, he’s the type women would call dark and mysterious. His mother’s Japanese and his father Swiss, so he grew up overseas, traveling between the two countries, before he developed an affinity for the only two things he cares about in this world: hockey and sports bikes.
His opinion of Woodrow Channing shines in his dark, almond-shaped eyes.
We’re on the same page.
My grin turns friendly as I address Woody. “It’s been a while. Surprised to see you turn up tonight.”
“I… had to… for Hawk, you know?” he slurs, shrugging. “Show so-some support.”
“Right,” I say. “It seems like you’re enjoying yourself. What drink are you on?”
He snorts, then leans closer. His sour breath reeks of liquor. “Don’t even know, Colt. I had some blow, th-then washed it down… with some… some highballs. Then had so-some slut suck me off… then I saw Danny Boy—you know Danny Boy—and he gave me xanny. Been a… a good night.”
“I’m sure it has. Hopefully TMZ doesn’t find out about it.”
“Wha-what d’you… gimme that, you shithead!”
I laugh as I step beyond his reach and watch him face plant on the floor. His hand grabs onto a tablecloth in an attempt to break his fall, but in true intoxicated fashion, he makes the situation five times worse—several platters of food rain down on top of him with a resounding crash.
Guests from all over the room gasp and crane their necks looking over.
Kai and I sidle off as if we weren’t the two people just dealing with Woody’s sloppy demeanor.
Within seconds, servers have scurried over to help him up only to be yelled at and berated by the red-faced professional golfer. It’s not the first time he’s collapsed in the middle of a party like this and it won’t be the last.
Just like it’s not the first time he’s been so damn blitzed out of his mind, he’s acting reckless. His most infamous scandal was a night just like this, where he got behind the wheel of his Ferrari and decided to drive himself home.
He drove into incoming traffic and horrifically injured a father of five for the rest of his life.
The payout was one of the biggest hush-hush celebrity payouts in history. The guy and his family never have to work another day in their lives… but it doesn’t make Woody any less of a piece of shit.
Which is why I feel no guilt as I send off the video I’ve recorded. TMZ will be reporting about it within the hour.
Kai raises a brow watching me. “You have no scruples, do you?”
“Not for drunk drivers who paralyze people on the street. Woody’s getting what he deserves.”
“That’s one way of looking at it,” he replies, his brow ticking up another quarter inch. “Did you really send that off to the tabloids?”
