Page 8 of Win Big

“Yeah, be careful what you say around him,” Bergie adds with a smirk.

They’re yanking my chain; I live next door to Théo and we’re sort of friends, but he’s definitely not talking shop to me and telling me who he plans to trade or who’s not getting a contract renewal. I ignore them and eat my meal. I for sure don’t tell them about taking a five-year-old to the aquarium yesterday. Not many people here know about Owen, and that’s fine with me.

I’ve just finished my meal when Everly Wynn strides into the lounge.

Whoa.

Sometimes I see her around the arena; the office of the Condors Foundation is there too. But she doesn’t usually come down here.

She scans the room and her gaze falls on me. She crosses the room with purposeful steps and stops near our table. “Hey. Can I talk to you for a few minutes?”

The other guys eye us curiously, but this isn’t really that out of the regular. I’m the one who feels like it is, though, because of our smokin’ hot make-out sesh the other night. Maybe she wants more of that. Maybe she wants to finish what we started.

She looks all business, though, in a gray-and-white tweedy dress that fits her curves, and high-heeled gray shoes. She’s always perfect—hair, makeup, clothes. Posture, even.

She wasn’t perfect yesterday morning when she woke up in my bed. Heh.

I toss down my paper napkin and rise from my chair. “Sure.” I follow her out of the lounge and into the corridor. “What’s up?”

She walks around a corner, where we’re mostly alone except for assistant coach Stanislov Petrov crossing the hall to the equipment room. “Why aren’t you coming to the Birds’ Banquet on the eighteenth?”

I frown. This is what she wants to talk about? “I can’t.”

“Why not?” She holds my gaze with authority. “It’s expected that all the Condors will be there.”

“I can’t make it. I have a conflict.”

Her eyes narrow. “You’re popular with the fans. Especially the female fans. You need to be there.”

I sigh and rub the back of my neck. “Look, I would if I could.”

“What’s the conflict?”

I study her and my own eyes narrow at her demand. “That is none of your business.”

She jerks back, eyes flickering. Her lips tighten.

She may be the boss of the Foundation, but she’s not the boss of me.

Christ, I sound like Owen.

Some of the guys come out of the dressing room, yakking.

Everly looks around, then opens the door to a media room, which is empty right now. She flicks on the lights and waves me in.

My muscles tense and my blood heats. I step into the room and close the door behind me. We’re alone in a silent box with chairs set up in rows and a dais at the far end. I move closer to her, and she steps back into the wall. “Who put you in charge of the team?” I ask quietly.

Her eyes flash. “I’m not in charge of the team. I’m in charge of the banquet. The team commits to working with the Foundation to raise money for the community, and one player isn’t above everyone else.”

I grit my teeth. “That’s not what this is.”

“I know you’re relatively new here.”

I tip my head in acknowledgment. Last season, I had quietly requested a trade to one of the California teams, and I’m grateful that the management of the Red Wings made it work right at the trade deadline. So, yeah, I wasn’t around last year when they did this big banquet, an annual event that apparently raises a shit ton of money for the Foundation.

“I’ve got nothing against community service; I know the expectations of the team and I do my part. But I can’t do this.”

She meets my eyes. We’re not touching, but we’re close enough that I can see all her long eyelashes fanned out above her crystal blue eyes, the shiny pink gloss on her lips, and the pulse fluttering in her throat.

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