Page 2 of Snap Shot

“Were you aware we're in the presence of hockeyroyalty?”

Fletch whoops and bounces on the balls of his feet in time with the drumbeat as it speeds up and intensifies. His arms pump the air like a true hype man, encouraging others to join this ridiculous stunt.

Wade points to me with both hands. “Landy with the Michigan!”

This fucking kid. I fight back a grin before slapping a hand over my eyes. Applause and cheers peal through the squared-off space. Fletch, Olsen, and Szecze crowd together, pretending to take pictures with their finger-cameras as Wade eggs me on.

“Twoend-to-ends!”

Okay, I'll give him what he wants. He's like an overgrown puppy: excitable and overeager, but harmless. I nod, bobbing my head in agreement. Breaking into a strut, I pace behind a bench and hit them with a GQ model stance, lips pursed and looking off to the side with my hand on my chin. The guys holler back.

“The buzzer-beater!”

Hell yeah! That was me, too. I grace them with the Greek God: one bicep curled towards a fist and the other arm extended with a hand pointing to the sky.

“Hits so clean, he didn't need to take a shower!”

That bit makes me bust out laughing. More of the team circle us. Even Jaeger. Their screams rise as they jump, torsos in various states of nakedness slamming together in a mosh pit.

“Give it up for...The man! The myth! The LEGEND! Our very own…LandonnnnnRadekkkkkk!”

A tangle of arms vine around us, connecting in a giant, palpating embrace, and letting out a unified roar.

What did I say about winning? This is the best fucking part. Knowing you belong to something way bigger than yourself.

The guys go back to fooling around and getting dressed as the celebration peters out. Wade lets out anughbehind me as I pull my arms through a crisp white shirt. He smacks a TV remote in his palm. “The fuck is wrong with this thing?” Alternating between pointing it at the screen and punching the power button, he squints and pouts.

“Need some help? Here.” I offer a hand, but the man has pride.

“I got it, I got it!” It zaps on. “See? I told you—what in the actualfuck?” Wade elbows me in the back as I tuck the shirt ends into my slacks. “Is that what I think it is, Landy?”

“Eh?” I turn as the broadcast throws up an image, eyes blinking to focus.Holy shit. That's…

“A compromising picture of Ottawa Regents' Landon Radek with who appears to be the team's ex-publicist, Annalise Pall, was posted soon after the end of tonight's game. The team moves on to the conference finals of the Stanley Cup playoffs on Saturday against the New York Eagles.”

“Your ass…is on…TV,” Wade continues, mouth hanging open.

I can't stop staring at the partially pixelated photo on-screen. My heart drops to my ass. Yep, the same one that’s on the ten o'clock news, bare cheeks smooshed into my living room window with Annalise's unmistakable o-face pressing into the glass over my shoulder, her feet digging into the back of my thighs. This is…not good. Fuck. Fuck me.

“I didn't know you banged the PR chick. Damn.”

“Shut up, Wade.” No need to discuss a drunk mistake with Fuckboy #1 over here.

“Jesusfuck,” Jaeger grumbles, shuffling up next to me.

The report amplifies as the rest of the team gathers close to the TV. They go quiet, joining in our shock, then howl with laughter, clapping hands onto my back and punching my sides like this is some sort of victory.

A weeping Annalise appears, sobbing and honking her nose into a tissue. The news runs a recording on a loop.

“He said he loved me.”

The fuck I did.

“But he used me.”

Fucking hell.

“Promised he'd get my job back if I slept with him.”

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