Page 5 of Conrad

He pulled on the trousers. Still a good fit. Then he returned to his wardrobe and opened his tie drawer. Grabbed out a black satin bow tie and flipped up his collar. “Fine. Sure. But let’s not overthink this. I have a full roster of games, and I need to be on point if I hope to be in a position to renegotiate this summer. And frankly, Penelope is . . . she’s all over social media. I’m not going there again, bro.” He flipped down his collar. Smoothed it out. “Besides, I doubt she has any bandwidth in her life for anyone extra.”

“Even Mr. June?”

He stilled, walked out to the bed and picked up the phone. Jack was grinning.

Conrad turned on his own video.

Jack raised an eyebrow as Conrad’s mug showed up. “Wow. Seriously?”

“I swear to you, if I see one calendar at the King’s Inn?—”

“Dude. I caught your ‘In the Locker Room with Fletch.’ You’re going to sell truckloads. Did you wax before you?—”

Conrad hung up. Threw the phone on the bed. Clenched his fists for a second, staring into the mirror.

The sweat broke out along his spine, his heart slamming against his chest.

And just for a second, the world narrowed.

Breathe.He sank down on the bed. Put his hands on the cool comforter.In. Out.

Visualize.His eyes opened, his gaze finding the picture of the sailboat, the one pitched at an angle, the splash of the deep-blue lake catching the sun. He sat holding the tiller, hair wild, no beard, barefoot.

He could smell it. Lake water. Wind. Spray.

His heartbeat softened. More breaths.

Getting up, he went to the bathroom, downed a glass of water. It sat in his gut without returning. So far, so good.

He just might live through this night without being the center of paparazzi attention.Please.

His Rolex said he had thirty minutes before the event—so great, he’d be late. Maybe he could slip in the back.

Except, as he drove up to the event—at the historic Frederick mansion in Minneapolis—the coned entry directed him to the valet entrance.

He surrendered his keys to some youngster in a suit. “Don’t dent anything.”

The kid—okay, probably a college student—nodded, and Conrad got in line to enter the building. He recognized a few of the other Blue Ox players—rookie Justin, of course, grinning for the press, and Wyatt Marshall, their goalie, with his pretty, petite wife, and player Kalen Boomer, and even Coach Jace with his wife Eden.

A heater blasted the portico, so he wasn’t cold as he stood at the bottom of the grand staircase.

A plaque near the walk said the place had been built in the late 1800s. It bore an Italian Renaissance aura, with pillars flanking the doorway of the covered entrance.

Massive floral arrangements in the blue and white of the Blue Ox stood in urns on either side of the door. And from the terrace over the entrance hung a banner with the EmPowerPlay logo.

Music spilled out—Pharrell Williams’s “Happy.”

This might not be a disaster. He’d get inside, glad-hand a few donors, eat some shrimp cocktail, give Coach Jace a thumbs-up, endure dinner small talk, and then skedaddle.

No harm, no foul, and he’d escape the media chaos.

Except, as he neared the door—no. Oh no.

Inside the foyer, larger-than-life posters of the calendar models flanked the stairway leading up to the ballroom, and even from here . . .

He looked like he might belong in aMagic Mikemovie. Shirtless, his body photoshopped into a tan. What hockey player sported a tan in April (when they’d taken the shots)? His beard was tangled, the red hues accented, his hair mussed, andgood grief,they’d added blue to his eyes.

ForgetMagic Mike—he could be on some sordid magazine cover, or worse, a romance novel.

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