Page 95 of Say Yes to the Nemesis
“I didn’t know that! Makes sense why the show keeps her on. She’s a nepo baby.”
There’s a beat before one voice says, “Girl, that’s not what a nepo baby is. But you’re right, she has zero personality.”
The sound of laughter follows.
I freeze, every syllable of their conversation gluing me to the spot. My hands clench around the hem of my jersey.
I know I shouldn’t let it get to me. I know I should laugh it off. But the words sink in, heavy as anchors. I don’t cry. I don’t move. I just press my lips together in silence and refuse to shed a single tear.
Ryan is off-limits for so many reasons. But this is the biggest one. This sort of treatment is what I should expect if I were ever foolish enough to let Ryan sweet-talk me into dating him.
I have to protect my heart. No matter that he’s a battering ram of a man, threatening to break down the careful walls I’ve put up.
twenty-six
RYAN
We’re supposedto be filming part of the new reality tv show at the arena’s after-party, but it’s not exactly the glamorous scene you’d imagine. The place is pretty chill, filled mostly with charity donors who pretend they’re not excited to be here and production people rolling their eyes at the signage.
A couple of the other players linger around, all trying to look casual as bait for reality TV gold. Everyone has plastic cups filled with weak cocktails. There’s a not-so-subtle effort from the crowd to act like they don’t notice the clunky cameras hovering in every corner.
I should be playing the amiable jock, chatting people up, but I’m barely interested in the charade.
Because Wren is here. She’s laughing with someone else.
Hunter Huxley, a left wing from the Seattle Havoc. A guy who is so fucking cocky that he wouldn’t shake my hand at the end of the charity game. We’re supposed to be raising money for sick kids and he’s so full of himself he can’t even see straight.
He runs his fingers through his dirty blond hair and smirks down at Wren. I was just on the ice with the guy and can confirm that he’s a giant.
But he’s also a huge dick. What does Wren see in him?
She’s different now than she used to be. Stronger. More visible. Part of me is proud. The other part is spiraling.
She’s got this soft, pretty laugh that cuts through all the noise. She has unintentionally reprogrammed me, changed my brain chemistry to be so attuned to her voice, her laugh, her every damn nuance.
I can tell she actually thinks whatever he’s just said is really funny. I’m not proud of the way the sound of her giggling knots me up. I try to pretend I don’t see it.
Like that’s possible. She’s not mine, not really. Not yet. But watching her smile at someone else like that? It feels like being benched during the most important game of my life.
I attempt a little small talk with Rich, feigning interest in his endless theory about last season’s finale. He goes on and on about how it could have had even more drama if only the producers had known about that secret hookup.
But my attention keeps slipping. I’m not even sure if I’m nodding at the right parts when he pauses expectantly.
I strain to hear her voice, even when it gets drowned out by the background noise. Finally, I give up pretending and let my gaze drift back to where she stands.
Wren’s always had this way of pulling focus. It used to drive me nuts, the way she’d steal the spotlight from whatever I was supposed to be paying attention to without even trying. Now, it’s more like she’s got a target on my heart and doesn’t even know it.
The guy Wren’s talking to? He’s looking slick, standing there like he’s already made the team and the highlight reel. He’s got that effortless swagger that makes him hard to ignore and he’s still in his practice gear, half-unzipped like he’s too cool for shirts that fit and manners that matter.
The worst part? He’s charming, throwing Wren a grin that must work on half the population.
I know his type. Hell, Iamhim.
I don’t miss the way Huxley looks at her legs in that short gray skirt. She shouldn’t be allowed to wear anything so sexy while other hockey players are around.
Most hockey players are dogs. Hunter Huxley is the worst of them all. My fists bunch as I think of how I’d like to deal with this situation: with violence.
I take a sip of my Coke, wondering how a drink with no alcohol can feel so bitter. I watch from across the room, pretending I’m totally fine, that I’m not glued to the sight of them like it’s some slow-motion car wreck I can’t tear my eyes from.
