Page 21 of Hard to Break

ICE nightclub, owned by Harrison King, is the place to be this year. His wife is one of the biggest producers and DJs in the world, but despite their public personas, they’ve managed to keep the story of how their relationship started mostly private.

Brooke, Clay, Nova, and I have barely gotten inside ICE when a woman cuts through the crowd to us. She’s about our age with strong features and dark hair. At first, I wonder if she’s a hostess—she’s definitely beautiful enough—but she’s too familiar and too relaxed for that. Nova holds her arms wide to the woman, who lets herself be drawn into a light hug.

“Didn’t see your name on the marquee,” Brooke calls over the music.

Raegan Madani, whom I recognize now that she’s up close, mouths something that looks as if it includes the word“vacation.” Her mouth curves, a tiny lift at one corner that barely registers in the darkness.

Brooke introduces me, and Raegan throws me a half nod. Her attention, even for a second, isn’t careless. Her gaze is the kind of intense that makes you feel as if she sees everything you’ve ever been or wanted to be.

“Well played, gentlemen.” The man who sweeps in wearing a dark suit has a British accent that’s obvious even over the pulsing beat. His hair is light. Everything else about him dark.

Clay and I shake Harrison’s hand in greeting. He’s giving Daniel Craig-era Bond even before he shifts an arm around Raegan’s shoulders, her fingers lacing casually through his. Brooke’s gaze flicks up and down him.

“You better be eyeing the suit,” I murmur in her ear.

She laughs, eyes warming with appreciation. “You worried?”

“Nah. I know exactly how to make you scream my name.”

Brooke looks next level tonight in a sparkly silver dress and heels. I like her hair every way, but tonight, she’s straightened it so that it falls down her back in a curtain.

I want to soak up every moment of this experience, but I also want to drag Brooke somewhere private and show her exactly how much it means to me that she’s here.

“Harry and Rae”—as Harrison insists we call them—show us to the best VIP booth in the place and inform us that each of the six booths by the dance floor have been reserved for players and guests. Ours is the most private, but each booth has black leather seats tall enough to shield all but the tallest VIPs.

Over the back of our booth, I spot other players from the game, including Hawkins in the next booth over with a couple other players and a few vaguely familiar faces—a couple of actors, I think, and a musician.

Our first round goes down fast. It’s a celebration, and after the long day of activity, I can feel the alcohol in my system.

Harry doesn’t linger, but Rae stays for a drink, chatting with Nova and Brooke.

“To your first of many games.” Clay holds up his glass.

The guy doesn’t drink alcohol during the season. For a moment, I imagine doing the same, but the next drink washes away any reluctance.

“Where did Jay and Chloe go?” Nova calls.

Brooke shrugs.

We’re distracted when Rookie and Atlas come by the booth for a round. One song blends into another. The vibe is practically giddy—we’re young and rich and have a week off, so what the fuck is there not to love?

I grab Brooke. “Dance with me.”

She tilts her head. “Are you any good?”

I grin. “I’m an all-star, baby.”

Brooke’s eyes roll, but she lets me tug her onto the floor.

I’ve got moves, but the second we’re out there, it’s all about her. She’s unselfconscious, moving to the music, both hands in the air. Her curvy hips sway, the shimmery fabric of the dress clinging to her body.

She lifts the phone in the air and snaps a sexy pic. Then changes the angle so it’s just our faces and texts both to me.

“What’s that one for?” I tease her.

“Grams! Figured she could do with less side boob and more of you.” She winks.

I love you.

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