Page 8 of Crossing the Top Line

“God, look at this face!” Elijah bursts out from the front seat, cackling like a madman.

“Of all of the shots they could have posted, why did they have to pick that one?” Oliver groans, looking at the post while we wait at a stoplight.

“And look at these replies. God, you are never going to live this down,” Eli manages to get out through his laughter.

I manage to push the strange reply out of my mind for the rest of the evening, preferring to occupy myself by joining in on Elijah’s ribbing. I’m sure someone just did a Google search and happened to come across some of the articles about me. This nagging sense of familiarity in the back of my mind is probably the result of a brutal week at practice, I reassure myself. Plus, there’s too much to look forward to to allow myself to get dragged into the past. Like trying to find a good liquor store so I can stock up for Dallas’s party tomorrow.

“Thankyousomuchfor helping out with the food, Tori. I don’t know what I would have done without you,” Ashley gushes, blonde hair frazzled from the steam billowing up from the pot she’s stirring.

“No problem at all, Ash! I’ll take any excuse to cook,” I reply enthusiastically, shoving a massive container of potato salad into the Young’s already stuffed fridge.

I make it a habit to be close friends with as many of the players’ wives and mates as I can, and Ashley is no exception. Last season, she traveled to most of the away games with the team, and there were times when we’d be the only ones in the executive box watching the game. It helps that Ashley Young is almost impossible not to like. Like her husband/mate Dallas, she was born and bred in Texas and has more Southern hospitality in her pinky finger than most people have in their whole bodies.

So when she’d texted me around lunchtime yesterday to tell me that she and Dallas were going to host a party, and she’d love me forever if I could come over a few hours early to help her cook, I couldn’t say no. I live by myself, so there’s no real reason for me to make huge, elaborate meals anymore. It’s a bonus that I get to hang out with such a sweet and funny beta while I do that.

Ashley’s curly blonde hair is up in its signature messy bun, her party clothes covered by a gingham apron proclaiming her as the kitchen queen. She’s working on one of the seafood boil pots, monitoring it to ensure we don’t have any escapees. I’m working on the side dishes, pulling out my MeeMaw’s tried-and-true recipes for mac and cheese, potato salad, macaroni salad, and a few Midwest staples, namely ambrosia and hot dish.

“Hailey, do not put that in your mouth!” Ashley exclaims, abandoning her post and rushing across the room to deal with her ten-month-old daughter.

I chuckle to myself, pulling out a few heads of broccoli and a sharp knife to start on the veggie tray. Hailey, I suspect, is the main reason Ashley asked for help, even if she would never admit that out loud. Dallas is out picking up the butcher order for the grill, having left even before I arrived two hours ago. Which left Ashley alone to wrangle a baby and cook enough to feed the dozen or so guys he’d invited from the team.

“Next week, I’m going to make sure my team gets the most embarrassing photo of Tex that we can and post that shit all over the place. It’ll serve him right,” I call over my shoulder, moving on to chopping the celery.

“It’ll serve who right, Tori?” a familiar voice calls from behind me.

I turn around and find the Devil I’d mentioned making his way through the open-plan living/dining room, a huge box over one shoulder, his daughter on his other hip. Ashley is right behind him with another box in her arms.

“Oh, way to show up only when we’re almost done. Your timing is impeccable, as always,” I snark, rolling my eyes and scoffing as I turn back to my vegetables.

“Don’t be like that, darlin’. There was traffic and they didn’t have the order ready when they said they would,” Dallas says sweetly, and I hear him setting his box down.

I hum skeptically, though my half-hidden smile betrays the annoyance I’m trying to maintain. I smell him a moment before I feel his scruffy lips brush my face in a friendly cheek kiss. Grass baking under the hot Texas sun, salt, and a hit of jasmine from his mating bond. God, that scent alone would melt every pair of panties in a two-mile radius. But he loves Ashley more than hockey, and breathing, in that order, as he likes to say.

Hailey coos as I turn to smile at her, showing off the budding front tooth she’s got coming in. The baby has her mom’s hair, but she got lucky and inherited her daddy’s olive-green eyes. I make a few faces at her, and Dallas indulges me for a few minutes. Only after I’ve let him stew do I look up at him and roll my eyes.

“You’re lucky you make the best steak in the whole damn city, Tex. But next time you abandon us to prepare for the partyyouwanted, I’m going to post that video from the golf tournament,” I warn, brandishing the knife at him carefully.

He gasps, his fear real this time, and it cracks my mock-anger at last. I cackle as he walks away, kissing Ashley soundly before taking Hailey out to the patio to start grilling.

“You run a tight ship, Tor,” Ashley laughs, turning her attention back to the boil.

I grin to myself. “A healthy dose of fear is good. Keeps them from acting the fool in public too often. They never know where I have eyes and cameras to capture them at their most vulnerable,” I reply, still chuckling.

Ashley laughs with me for a moment before we turn back to cooking. I’m not being entirely dishonest, though I’m exaggerating a little. I need the boys to behave and not cause any scandals, which means occasionally reminding them of the blackmail material I have. I’ve proven that I’m not afraid of letting the public see a less-than-polished version of the team—it makes them more human, and people get more invested in their success when they think they could have a beer with any of the guys on the team. Like my post yesterday. While I could have posted any of the beautiful action shots Monroe got for me, I decided to go with the one of Oliver Astrauckas looking absolutely scandalized by whatever Dallas was saying to him. The fans ate it up, and more than a dozen of last year’s lineup like the post, though none of them interacted with it.

None of them except for Spencer Black.

My blood boils a little at the memory of seeing those pixels pop up on my screen, and I definitely cut a few pieces of cauliflower with more gusto than is necessary. If anyone else on the team had commented what he did, I wouldn’t have batted an eye. We would have bantered back and forth a few times, and that would have been the end of it. But I know them, and they know it’s me behind the snappy comebacks. As far as I can tell, Spencer doesn’t have a clue that I work for the Mystic.

And honestly, I’d like it to stay that way for as long as possible.

I’ve spent the time since the trade was announced trying to figure out how to handle this entire situation with Spencer Black. We didn’t exactly have a pleasant and amicable parting of ways six years ago, and despite all the therapy I did, I’m not over what he did to me. And now that he’s back in my life, I don’t know how I’ll ever get over it. But he’s here for at least the next five years, according to the deal he signed. I can’t avoid him forever, especially once the season starts.

His reply to my post sent me on a spiral, the likes of which I’ve not experienced since grad school. And yeah, I snapped back with more venom than I normally allow myself to have. Using his college hockey nickname was a low blow, but I don’t regret it. Part of me hopes that he might connect the dots, but I’m not holding my breath. But even still, the what ifs and unknowns of this entire situation cost me hours of sleep, and I’m only functioning today due to the near-lethal amount of caffeine I’ve ingested. I keep reminding myself that I’ve got time to come up with a game plan, some sort of strategy to let me cope with being in the same room. And right now, specifically, isn’t the time to think about this. I haven’t hung out with the guys for months, and I’ve missed them. Tomorrow is for planning and plotting. Today is for hanging out, eating good food, and blowing off steam after a long first week of training camp.

I manage to push Spencer Black out of my mind for the rest of the preparations through sheer force of will. But it gets significantly easier once the house starts to fill up with familiar faces. Owen Leblanc and Caleb Parker are the first to arrive, both being chronically early to everything, no matter what we do to counteract it. Henrik Nilsson is next, holding a single six-pack of domestic beer. He finds his usual spot next to the grill, speaking intensely with Dallas while he works. Henri and Tex have been linemates for pretty much their entire careers with the Mystic, and I swear Tex would have the soft-spoken Swede living with them this year if Ashley hadn’t gotten pregnant.

Nathan Tremblay, one of the youngest players on the team last season, doesn’t come with any alcohol and immediately hovers around the kitchen, helping me set out the salads and other appetizers. He’s a cute kid, thoughkidis relative. He’s freshly nineteen, but still has the face of a cherub, messy red hair and doe-like brown eyes only adding to his youthful visage. Off the ice, he wouldn’t hurt a fly, but on the ice, he’s an entirely different animal. He had the most hits out of anyone else on the team last year, and even put one guy on injury reserve right before his team headed to the playoffs.

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