Page 3 of Playing for Keeps

CHAPTER 2

GUNNAR

LATER THAT DAY

“Yo,Gun, did you just puke in the sink?” Rogers, our starting center, pokes me with his glove, frowning as I wipe my mouth with the back of my wrist. I nod at him, and he groans. Soon, the entire Fury team is screaming at me to use the toilet next time I get nervous. I would have done that if I thought I could fit in the stall with my gear on.

My brothers bump me with their shoulders, flanking me as I hobble back to the bench on my skates. Those two were always going to be first-line players. The twins are mirror twins—one of them left-handed, one of them right-handed, and both massive. They operate on the ice as one being. Hardly anyone gets past them.

Me? I’m only starting because our legendary goalie tore something in his hip. Just like everything else in my life, this fell to me. Not because I earned it but because of circumstances outside my control.

“You gonna make it?” My brother Alder rests his forehead against mine and looks into my eyes.

I shove him away and nod as our coach starts banging a clipboard against the wall, shooing us out of the locker room and onto the ice.

The game is a blur … except for each of the four times the Vegas Outlaws slide the biscuit past me.

After I shower, I want to go back to my hotel room and drain the mini bar, but I’m a professional now. I have to cram myself into a suit and shake hands with sponsors. I look at myself in the locker room mirror, adjust my tie, and smooth my hair. Guys are grumbling all around me. Nobody has said anything to me specifically.

We were expected to lose this game, but I still hate it. Vegas isn’t usually in the preseason lineup for Pittsburgh, but we flew out here this year because our teams have the same title sponsor. For extra fun, we will be spending time with those Vegas Outlaw assholes after our loss, sucking up to our sneaker overlords.

But first I have to talk to the media about the loss I allowed.

“You got this, Gun.” Tucker licks his index finger and tries to smooth out one of my eyebrows. I shove him away, but he just laughs. “Come on.”

He and Alder push me toward the door. Alder snaps a pic to send to Mom and Dad, who were upset to miss our triple professional debut, but Mom had some bar association thing and wanted Dad at her side.

“G Stag! Hey!” My agent, Brian, snaps his fingers in my face, alerting me to the fact that he’s probably been talking for a bit already.

“Sorry, Bri. What’s that?”

He shakes his head. “I said don’t leave after this. You and I have a very exciting date with a pen and paper.”

Brian has been working to get me some endorsements. He’s sort of the family agent, representing first my Uncle Hawk andthen two of my cousins when they went pro for soccer. Now that he signed me and the twins, he’s been trying to drum up fan support to pressure the management into giving me more ice time. He didn’t use the phrase “capitalize on Grentley’s injury,” but I know damn well I need to shoot my shot right now. Or block every shot. Whatever.

I shake hands with all the suits and smile when someone walks past with a camera. Brian sticks to me closely, deflecting all questions about me taking over for Grentley and reminding the press that the post-game questions already happened. “We’re here to celebrate shoes,” he tells them, pointing down at my brothers’ and my feet. We all look pretty fly in our Fury-branded special edition Adinas.

Eventually, Coach thanks everyone for attending, and we are set free. Most of the guys already have their wallets out, heading straight for the casino floors.

I’m not even sad about my agent dragging the Triple Stag off to a smaller bar inside the resort. It’s some sort of speakeasy with velvet walls. Brian tries to order drinks for the twins and dumb-ass Tucker reminds him they’re still not twenty-one.

I sink into my chair, sipping whatever whiskey cocktail Brian procured, paying half attention to him explaining how we’re going to be the face of the new wing in the children’s hospital back in Pittsburgh. “Be seen with injured children, gentlemen,” Brian says. “When the women swoon, they swoon loud. Nobody wants to bench the guy who’s trending.” He’s got all kinds of admonishments about keeping up a clean-cut image, keeping our asses out of trouble and off social media.

None of that will be hard for me. I always kept my head down in college. Sure, I knew how to have a fun time, but I don’t get sloppy drunk in public, I don’t get in fights, and my parentsraised me right when it comes to sex. Everybody leaves my bed happy, with clear expectations and a clean bill of health.

“Kids and puppies, Gunnar. That’s how we get you to stay between the pipes.” Brian clinks his glass against mine, and I nod, still simmering in post-game agony over coming in as a reserve goalie and then letting four past me.

I glance over Brian’s shoulder when movement catches my eye on the stage, and I see the sexiest woman in the world playing music. Only then do I realize we haven’t been listening to the radio or recorded tunes. This whole time, it’s been this dark-haired goddess making all these delicious sounds. She’s fair-skinned, curvy, and clearly passionate about her art because the face she’s making is barely PG-13. Or maybe that’s just my caveman response to her.

A cello rests against her body as she leans into the performance. Dim lights gleam off the redwood surface of the instrument, and her arm moves like a bird’s wing as she works the strings. My mouth hangs open as I watch her eyes open and close, sometimes deep in concentration and sometimes wild with intensity. Her hair is tied over one shoulder, and her bare arms are toned and powerful.

By the time she stops playing, I’m already on my feet. Brian and my brothers look at me, then glance at the stage and start applauding awkwardly, but I stand there. I have to talk to her. I have to get her name, at least.

As Alder and Tucker lean into the Vegas atmosphere and start whistling, the rest of the patrons join in, cheering and whooping. The musician bows her head, sets her instrument on its side, and walks off the side of the stage to a waiting glass of water.

“Brian, I gotta go. Thank you for the drink and the hospital news.” I set my glass down, and my brothers laugh as Brian mutters something about keeping myself out of trouble.

I adjust my collar as I walk toward the stage. I have to meet her. I don’t even have time to come up with a line.

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