Page 15 of Face Off
Brooks pulls off his helmet, placing it on the bench beside him. His brown locks are covered in a sheen of sweat as he shakes his hair out like a shaggy dog. I wonder how it would feel to run my fingers through his hair. The thought sending a pink blush to my cheeks. God, I hope he doesn’t notice.
He noticed.
His smile broadens as he examines me. “Yeah. Sounds good. So, I wanted to ask if you had any plans Friday night?” he asks curiously.
“Yes,” I answer as Cam replies with a no.
“She’ll probably just sit at home and watch hockey highlights while drinking wine and eating pizza again.”
“Camden!” I scold.
Okay, so he’s not entirely wrong, but I’d probably be home catching up on some junk reality TV show. It gives me the right amount of drama without actually being involved. God knows I have enough of my own though to where I could have my own TV show.
Brooks pauses for a moment, stroking the stubble along his chin as if he’s deep in thought.
“So… seven sound good for you? I’ll make my infamous stir fry.”
I stare at him dumbfounded, my mouth slightly open in surprise. He can’t be serious. I just told him no. Capital N.O.
Before I get a chance to speak, Cam answers for me, “Sweet. I’m down,” he says, looking back at me. “I mean if my mom’s okay with it.”
“Uh, no. We have that event Friday,” I say, giving Camden a stern look.
He nods his head in understanding.
Brooks’ smile falls for a moment as he furrows his brows at me as if he’s trying to gauge whether I’m lying or not.
“Employee dinner for the team.”
A mischievous smile tilts at the corner of his lips. “Right. Next time then.”
The ride to my parents’ house for the annual employee dinner is filled with nothing but Camden’s excitement. He has had the time of his life these past couple of days, training with Brooks.How jealous all his friends were at practice today when they found out he had been training privately with Brooks. Even when I corrected him with the fact that he was only helping me train Brooks, he seemed unaffected. Nothing could break his stride.
We enter the front door of my family’s estate to boisterous music. Servers glide around the foyer with plates full of hors d’oeuvres, while employees of the Skipjacks and their families are scattered throughout in conversation. My father goes all out for his employees, many of whom have been with the organization since the beginning of time. I remember when I was Camden’s age, getting dressed up in my best formal wear to mingle with the grownups. Now, it’s just another obligation that I wish I could avoid.
“I’m gonna go hang in my game room,” Camden says, scurrying up the stairs.
“Okay, but not for long,” I yell as he continues up the stairs.
I roll my eyes, looking at my little wingman making his perfect escape. I remember when I was his age, dressing up in my best formal attire to mingle with the best. I ate that shit up. However, now I wish I were doing exactly what Camden was doing.
Hiding.
Don’t get me wrong, I love parties. But ever since Boyce denied our child in front of everyone at my parents’ “Memorial Day Summer Bash” in this very house, I haven’t been happy to attend. The embarrassment I felt as my parents both sided withBoyce. There was no way he would lie about such a thing… yeah, what a bunch of bullshit that was.
I walk further into the house, finding my parents standing next to one another near the large fireplace of the family room. My mother’s floor-length green Valentino gown flows effortless, her blond hair in a stunning updo, while my father’s gray pin-striped suit perfectly pressed. Both of their outfits probably costing double the amount of the simple black cocktail dress I had settled for that has been stuffed way back in the back of my closet. Sometimes I can’t help but wonder how I ended up in such a proper family who cared so much about appearance.
“There she is.” My father beams as I approach them.
“Hello, darling,” my mother says, kissing both sides of my cheeks. “Where’s Camden?”
My cheeks hurt from the fake smile plastered on my face. “Upstairs in his game room. Where else.”
“Should have known.” She waves me off. “So, your father has told me that you’ve been making quite an impact since taking over.”
“Well, Mr. Richards.” I emphasize my father’s last name, reminding her that I’m not his daughter today but an employee. “Has certainly given me a task. You know Dr. Monroe wasn’t the best recordkeeper.”
“Ah, he was just old and unorganized. Cut him some slack,” my father defends.
