Page 20 of Perfect Score

Brent's smile is on full display— the kind that's perfectly polished and camera ready. He's playing his part and even I know that fame comes with having to sign t-shirts and kiss baby heads. He's signing everything hoisted in his direction with a quick flick of his wrist, sharing a practiced grin with women who have no sense of personal space. One of them leans in, pressing her breasts against his arm and whispers something up to his ear. He chuckles, the devilish smirk on her face says that whatever they're discussing isn't fit for family night at the Hawkeyes stadium. But he doesn't pull back from her, instead he gives her a smooth smile that makes it clear he's used to this kind of attention—too used to it, and then says something back.

I feel an odd tug in my chest—probably just annoyance but I'd rather not dig any deeper to be sure. We need to get going, andhe's stuck signing autographs and entertaining his female fan base.

I let out an annoyed grumble, my finger tightening around the handle of my bag as I walk around the mob of women and head for the SUV rental parked against the curb behind him.

Brent spots me walking around the parameter of his own personal welcome committee. His eyes don't break from mine, until I raise my phone up and tap on the time.

He gives a nod that he understands we're on a time crunch but then gets back to signing more items getting passed to him.

I open the passenger door, the SUV still running, and slide in closing the door behind me.

Between the beautiful women I've seen Brent photographed with in the media, the flight attendant that looked like she was about to quit her job to spend the weekend with him, and all the women circling around him right now, maybe he did me a favor by not taking me to prom.

I could never have competed against all the options he has at his disposal.

After ten minutes goes by, Brent is still signing more things as new people join the group, and I'm feeling more anxious about getting to the event. At this point, we're going to be cutting it so close to consider a shower as an option.

I lean over into the driver's seat and lay on the horn. Most of the women jump, shrieking at the sound, but a few are bomb proof and don't move a muscle.

Brent waves goodbye, physically extracting himself from the group and then jogs to the driver's side of the car.

Finally, we're in the car and pulling off the curb.

Chapter Six

Brent

Zoey stares straight ahead, arms crossed, fuming at whatever the hell she thinks I did. You'd think after all these years of her cold shoulder at mutual friend's events that I'd be used to it bynow but for some reason, I thought I was gaining ground with her—I was wrong.

The silent treatment drags on and I'm over this.

"Did I miss something?" I ask, my hands tightening around the leather steering wheel as I glance over at Zoey. "What are you pissed off about now?"

She huffs, debating whether or not to engage, but she finally does.

"We're going to be late now because you needed your ego stroked," she snaps, breaking her silence. "Or was it something else that you were looking to get stroked, since you struck out with the flight attendant earlier."

I resist the urge to smirk. She's fishing for a reaction from me, but I won't be giving her one.

"Struck out? I don't think that's how it happened. But even if it did, my ego isn't that fragile. I'm sure that's disappointing for you to hear." I let out a slow breath, keeping my tone even. "Those people back there are fans. And I'll always make time for a quick autograph or photo with them if I get the chance—it's part of the deal." I know she's been anxious about getting to the hotel, so guilt tugs at me for not wrapping it up sooner. "But hey, I'm sorry we're going to be a little late."

I know getting there early and checking in before the party was important to her, and I didn't want to be late for the welcome drinks either, but I couldn't just ignore the women who surrounded me within minutes of me exiting the car. Even after all these years of being in the public eye, I still haven't found a polite way to tell hockey supporters that I have to get back to my life.

My intention was to meet Zoey at the door, grab her bag from her, load it in the back with the rest of our stuff, and then take off. But then I was spotted as soon as I stepped out of the SUV and the crowd grew from there.

"Oh," she says with fake surprise, "Your job is to flirt with your fans and lead them on? A player on and off the ice." That last part she mutters as she turns to stare out her side window.

"Wait… you think I'm a player?"

Zoey glances back at me, rolling her eyes.

"What do you call the women you’re photographed with on dates but never seen with again? Of course, you’re a player."

I lift an eyebrow at her feeble attempt at evidence. How does she know they're not the ones ghosting me?

If she ever bothered to ask, I'd tell her that half the women I'm spotted with are friends or women that my agent sets me up with for events — usually for cross-promotion. Models—actresses… women who either don't want to go solo or feel safe showing up with me when there's a possibility of crazy fans or stalkers being at the event. I'm also a great dancer, and a hell of a good time at a party, but I guess it's on me that Zoey never got to experience that firsthand.

The other half… Well, not all dates make it past dinner. Hell, most of them don't seem to make it past drinks. But for the ones that do, the terms are mutual and temporary, let's just say that. I haven't had a lot of extra bandwidth since my parents passed. Taking care of Gran, Tessa and my career hasn't left much room for anything else. But I'm not breaking any hearts despite what Zoey thinks.

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