Page 100 of Win Big

“Um, sure. I’ll have a vodka and cranberry.”

Scott goes with him, and I’m alone with Dad. As usual, it feels stupid to bring up memory problems when he seems fine. “Dad?”

“Yeah?” He turns affectionate eyes on me.

“I love you.”

He blinks in surprise. Then he smiles, his face crinkling up. “I love you too, sweet girl.”

I study him, his legendary crystal blue eyes, his tanned face, his thinning gray hair. My heart squeezes with love and I reach out and grab his hand briefly, smiling back at him.

I want to ask him about the money, to see for myself if he knows what I’m talking about, but it’s not the time or place. Théo and Scott return with drinks for all of us and I take mine and set it on the counter.

Pierre Lalonde, GM of the Flames, sticks his head in the door. “Hey, Bob, how are you?”

“Pierre!” Dad stands and greets his colleague (adversary?) with a strong handshake. “How are you?”

They make small talk and I lean closer to Théo. “He seems fine tonight,” I murmur.

“Yep.” Then Théo joins Dad and Pierre, and I can tell from the conversation that Théo and Pierre have already had discussions this week.

The game is an exciting one, with end-to-end action and scoring going back and forth. First the Flames are up by a goal. The Condors score a goal to tie it and then another to go ahead. Then the Flames even the scoring, and get another. It’s crazy but wildly entertaining, both teams playing hard and fast. The game is tied four all with only forty-four seconds left in the third period, seriously looking like overtime, when Baz scores for the Flames.

The wild atmosphere in the arena dims, the crowd falling silent. I drop my head forward. This might as well have beensudden death overtime, because the chances of tying it up in forty-four seconds are slim.

And . . . they don’t. We lose five–four.

Ah well.

I hang around a few minutes to chat with other people who stop by the box. Now Dad looks tired, and I can tell he doesn’t remember the name of someone he’s talking to. It’s not a huge deal... it’s someone from the Flames, not a person he knows well, but he’s always been so personable, remembering people’s names and their spouses’ and children’s names and... I learned how to do it from him.

My throat constricts but I keep my smile in place, making sure the people we’re talking to have no idea Dad doesn’t know Sheldon’s name.

This is probably what Mom does. All the time.

Now my heart aches for my mom. I can’t imagine what it would be like to be dealing with this, the man you love slowly losing his mind.

I pull in a long breath and let it out slowly. I have to get through the rest of this evening.

I take the elevator down to ice level and make my way to the family lounge just outside the dressing room. There are still media interviews going on, so I duck into the lounge. The players are starting to come out in their game day suits, finding their wives or girlfriends in the lounge to head home. I text Wyatt that I’m in here so he’ll know where to look, then spend a few minutes socializing with Elle and Anna, two of the players’ wives. I feel a bit out of place down here, because I’m not a wife or girlfriend—at least not officially—but everyone talks to me and is friendly to me because of who I am. They know I’ve been watching the game with the owner of the team up in the press box. I could think it sucks that they’re only nice to me because of who I am, but I decided a long time ago not to feel that way. I’mjust happy they’re friendly to me, and I figure if I’m a nice person back to them, then maybe it’snotjust because of who I am.

My phone pings with a text, and I check it to see Wyatt is showered and changed and out of the dressing room, waiting for me outside. “Well, I have to go,” I say. “So nice to see you again!”

“You too, Everly!”

I meet up with Wyatt in the corridor. He gives me a tired smile, leans down to smooch my lips, and we start walking toward the exit. “Baz will meet us at the Beach Bistro,” he says, naming a bar that’s in the Fairmont, where the Flames are staying. We decided to meet there for a drink to make things easy for Baz.

“Sounds good. Sorry you lost,” I say, slipping my hand into his. “It was a really good game.”

“Fuck.” He shakes his head. “So fucking close.” He makes a frustrated noise in his throat.

“It really was.”

I’ve learned that he likes to talk about games after. Some players don’t; I know this from my brothers. But I’ve also learned that Wyatt doesn’t expect me to say much. He just wants to unload. So I let him, with the occasional, “I know!” and “That is so true.”

Then we’re at the Fairmont. The Beach Bistro is a cool indoor/outdoor bar here. It’s a nice evening and there are heaters, so we head outside.

“Oooh! Let’s sit there!” I point at the fire pit with Adirondack chairs arranged around it.

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