Page 28 of Crossing the Top Line

I know better than to interrupt whatever pre-game rituals the players have, so I try to stay as unobtrusive as possible as I get the footage I need. Not all of the players will make their entrance here, mostly out of superstition, but the ones who do are welcomed with open arms by the fans.

I’m reviewing the footage of Nathan Tremblay, when the crowd noise picks up again, and I get ready for whoever is coming in next. My jaw drops, finger hovering over the record button, as I see Oliver, Elijah, and Spencer striding together down the carpet.

I’m not sure who wears their suit the best, but the sight of them in slacks that cling to muscular thighs and expensive jackets barely containing their biceps legitimately makes my brain turn to mush. I shake myself from my stupor, getting the clips I need during their limited time in the public eye. Not many people are asking for their autographs, but they sign a few before heading inside.

Elijah notices me first, his face lighting up with a wide smile. My spine straightens, my lips pulling up a little at the corners as his pace quickens, but a low growl from Oliver’s throat brings him back in line. I blink, mostly in confusion at the flutter in my stomach at the sound. I’m still trying to puzzle it out as they pass, and I manage to catch Oliver’s eye long enough for him to throw me a wink.

“God, the fans are going to eat them up once they see them on the ice,” Monroe says under his breath.

I’m still watching their retreating backs, and I nod vaguely. Another burst of cheering from outside brings me back into the moment, and I reluctantly turn away from the pleasant view back to my job.

The afternoon passes in a blur, and before I know it, I’m making my way to the executive box to get in position for the game. The doors haven’t opened for the general public, but the VIPs would be making their way up to the box at any moment. But as I scan my badge and open the door, I’m surprised to find that there’s already someone here.

He turns to face me, and I let out a small breath as I recognize the young, beautiful face looking back at me.

“Mr. St. Clair, good to see you again,” I chirp pleasantly, making my way to the drinks table.

Gideon St. Clair gives me an appraising look before nodding, taking a sip of whatever amber liquor he’s chosen for the evening.

“Did you draw the short straw?” he asks, the deep rumble of his laugh adding to the joke.

I roll my eyes. “We all thought your uncle would be gracing us with his presence,” I reply, not a direct answer to his question.

Honestly, Gideon being here is a relief compared to the alternative. Being around Leopold St. Clair is what I imagine new recruits must feel like when around the strictest drill sergeant on the planet. I could be on my absolute best behavior, and he would still find something about me contemptible. Not that he would ever say anything, of course. But I could see it in his eyes, wordlessly saying that everyone and everything around him was beneath him. And while Gideon has little patience for bullshit, at least he’s got enough tact to keep whatever opinions he has to himself. It also helps that, unlike most people I imagine he encounters, I very much do not want to fuck him.

“So, what do you think of the team?” he asks, moving to the front row of the box.

I hum, following behind and taking my usual seat and setting up my laptop on the little table. “In what regard?” I ask, letting him lead the conversation.

He chuckles, leaning back in his seat and crossing one leg over the other. “Well, I’ll have to report about whether we should keep investing in this money pit.”

I sigh and look at him with a cocked eyebrow. He catches my look and gives me a lopsided grin. We both know that he wouldn’t let Leopold sell the team unless he had no other choice. It might be his uncle’s name on the contract, but Gideon is the real reason we’ve been able to afford state-of-the-art facilities despite not going to the playoffs in over a decade.

“I think you might not have to lie this time,” I say, turning back to my laptop and opening my work messaging app.

“We’ll see if the players will be able to live up to your lofty praise,” Gideon throws back.

I grin to myself. Of all the people I have to rub elbows with in this job, all the sponsors we have to answer to, at least this relationship is easy. Gideon genuinely gives a shit about hockey, unlike a lot of the other vendors whose names are plastered around this building.

It’s not long before other VIPs make their way up to the box, including the General Manager for the Mystic, George Hoover. Food is served and it’s all small talk, everyone doing their best to flatter Gideon. He barely pays most of them any mind, typing on his phone with the hand that doesn’t have a drink in it. George gets his attention for a while as they talk about the moves the team made over the summer, but of course, the conversation gets highjacked at any possible opportunity.

I’m sorting through the photos Monroe took, polishing them a little before sending them off to the marketing and broadcast teams to use however they choose, when the first voices start to fill the arena, music coming on over the loudspeakers. Gideon moves toward the back of the box as people take their seats, and I frown. I’ve never asked why he keeps his visits to the team a secret from the public, but I doubt he would tell me even if I did. I’ve never met someone as private as Gideon St. Clair.

Warmups come and go, but I’m deep in my work, posting the lineup across social media and getting myself ready. The buzzer sounds, the music swells, safety announcements are made, and then a hush comes over the building. Lights dim over the crowd even as the ones over the ice grow brighter. The arena media team outdid themselves this year with the pre-game presentation, my heart speeding up with excitement with each passing moment. When the Zambonis finish their last lap and the officials come flying out onto the ice, every eye in the building is fixed on the dark opening of the tunnel next to the bench.

There’s a moment when everyone seems to breathe in at once, the air electric. I lean forward, goosebumps rising on my arms before the voice of Gene Robichaux comes roaring over the speakers.

“Ladies and gentlemen, make some noise for your New Orleans Mystic!”

The cheer that follows makes my heart skip a beat. Players in deep purple, emerald-green, and bright gold uniforms pour out of the tunnel and onto the ice, skating in a few warmup laps before settling onto the bench. Coach McQueen is on the riser behind them, alongside the assistant coaches, a trainer, and an equipment manager. Houston is settling into their temporary home, the goalies marking their space on each end of the ice.

The national anthem is a blip in time, roster announcements a blur, and then the starting lineup takes their positions around center ice.

A deep inhale. The music goes quiet. A referee holds out the puck, pausing as the centers lean in, sticks at the ready.

The rubber hits the ice, and the world falls away.

It’s showtime.

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