Page 2 of The Secret Play

“Casey!”

I turned to see Matthew Edwards, the Fire’s owner, shuffling toward me with his cane. At seventy-four, Matthew was one of the few people here older than I was, though he carried his age with the kind of confidence money could buy.

His tuxedo fit perfectly, his silvery hair was tucked beneath his top hat, and his mask—simple black with gold trim—looked like it belonged on the cover of a magazine.

“Matthew,” I said, shaking his hand. Minus the mask, he was dressed like the Monopoly Man, but I’d never tell him to his face. “You’re looking sharp.”

“So are you,” he said, his voice warm. “Though I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in a tuxedo.”

He had. I’d worn a tux to four other charity events for the team. But Matthew wouldn’t remember any of that. His memory was starting to go. I wasn’t sure who else knew it, and I certainly wasn’t going to bring it up. The old man was a kooky oil tycoon and a good team owner. He loved the Atlanta Fire, doting on everyone at every possible chance. So, bringing up his diminished capacity would have been cruel.

I merely smiled. “First time for everything.”

“I wanted to thank you for everything you’ve done for tonight. Whitney says you’ve been a big help.”

“It’s her show,” I said. “I’m just here to nod and follow orders.”

“Don’t sell yourself short,” Matthew said, his gaze steady. “The players look up to you. They trust you.”

The words caught me off guard, but before I could respond, he gave my shoulder a pat and shuffled off toward the silent auction table.

I sighed, turning my attention back to the crowd. The team was spread out across the ballroom, mingling with sponsors and donors like we’d trained them to do. Beau Fournier was at the bar, his hulking frame making him impossible to miss, while Victor Sokolov held court near the dessert table, his Russian charm on full display. The rest of the guys had scattered, blending into the crowd as best they could.

And then I saw her.

She was standing near the edge of the dance floor, her long red hair catching the light like embers in a fire.

Her gown, a deep teal blue, shimmered with every subtle movement, and her mask—a dazzling peacock design—was a perfect match. The long feathers on the sides framed her face, drawing attention to her sharp cheekbones and the faint curve of her lips.

I couldn’t explain why she held my attention, but my breath stopped as I watched her.

The room was full of beautiful women, all of them dressed to the nines, but there was something about this woman that made it impossible to look away.

Whatever it was, I was captivated.

She wasn’t trying to draw attention to herself. She wasn’t laughing loudly or surrounded by admirers. She just stood there, poised but unassuming, her gaze drifting across the room as she observed the goings-on.

She was like me. In the room, but not a part of it.

For a moment, I wondered who she was. A player’s date? That didn’t seem likely. She was too refined for their tastes. I loved my team, but they were notorious for hooking up with puck bunnies, and this woman was no puck bunny. Maybe she was someone connected to the hospital? There were plenty of them here—administrators, managers, and so on.

Before I could stop myself, I took a step toward her. Then another. But just as I reached the edge of the crowd, Whitney appeared at my side, her clipboard in hand.

“Casey,” she said, her tone brisk. “I need you.”

It was hard not to bristle at hearing my first name. She was one of the few team-related people who used it. “Not now, Whit.”

Whitney followed my gaze and smirked. “A woman is enough to distract you from work? Since when?”

I turned to her, narrowing my eyes. “What do you need?”

“The hospital’s CEO wants to meet you. He’s over by the photo wall.”

“Right now?”

“Right now,” she said firmly. “And after that, you’re doing a lap around the room to thank the donors. Remember, this is your event as much as it’s mine.”

If I thought I could have changed Whitney Dobson’s mind about anything, I might have argued about it. But there was no point. I’d once tried to argue my way into a better parking spot that she wanted, and by the time I’d left her office, somehow she had gotten me to agree to personally handwashing her car for a month.

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