Page 17 of Chips & Checks
“Our Vi?” I echo, slow and stupid.
Maybe I was wrong. Maybe she is a puck bunny. Maybe she’s halfway through the roster and I’m just a blip on her stat sheet. A warm-up. A fucking preseason scrimmage. And that should be fine. It would be fine.
Except… it’s not.
The idea of Vi—my Vi, the one who clung to me like I was oxygen, the one who whispered my name like it meant something—doing a train with my new teammates makes something in my chest twist tight.
Not jealous. Just… territorial. Which is worse, probably.
I clear my throat. “Do you know her?”
It comes out too soft, too hopeful, and I immediately hate myself. Yesterday, I was dodging texts from women back in Minnesota wanting to fly out here, still acting like I owed them something. Today, I’m practically begging strangers to help me find a woman who made me feel like I was the one being fucked, not the other way around.
God, I’m a mess.
It must be the heat. It has to be.
Viktor lifts a brow but doesn’t answer. Neither does Camden.
The silence is deafening.
Finally, Viktor waves me off. “Nah. Vegas is a big place. I wouldn’t get my hopes up. She could have been a tourist just passing through. Chicks always fall for that ‘what happens in Vegas’ shit. She’s probably a housewife from Detroit. Now, finish getting ready, and we’ll hit the ice. I want to see what kind of moves you’ve got, new guy.”
I relax at the mere mention of ice time. That’s exactly what I need to help clear my head and cleanse my palate of the lingering sweetness of my one and only night with the elusive Vi.
Chapter Three
Violet
The team dinner at the Mona Lisa to introduce the new winger is scheduled to start at seven o’clock. All week long, the team and the whole raft of Venom staff have been getting emails from Dante Giovanetti, the former owner who still micromanages the team, with subject lines likeBig Event Dinner at the Mona Lisa!, andBlack-Tie Dress Code at Announcement Dinner—I’m Not Kidding There Will be Press!!, andImportant Supporters Will Be At This Dinner So Be On Your Best Behavior!!!
Well, I’m here. I’m dressed up. And I’m out of breath, running in platform heels, because it’s currently 7:23, and I am most definitely late.
I scurry through the lobby and flash an apologetic grin to the Mona Lisa employees I pass at the front desk. They don’t look too surprised by my indecorum. Then again, Vegas is not known for its decorum, is it? I keep the hustle going until I reach the door of the ballroom that’s reserved for tonight’s announcement.
I’m still catching my breath and arranging my hair when Dante’s head appears in the doorway. Since he was my dad’s boss back in the day, I grew up around the supposedly retired team owner, and I remember how intimidating he seemed when I was little. Age softens some people, but it’s turned Dante into the kind of man who shakes his fist at the heavens while telling kids to get off his astroturf. He’s not as scary as he’d like to think, but he has crankiness down pat.
Dante glares at me. “I said seven o’clock. You kids have technologyeverywhere. How can you not be on time?”
I square my shoulders and pull myself up to my full, if unimpressive, height. “Someone in this organization approved a huge supply shipment for the season, which happened to arrive this afternoon.”
His lip curls back. “So?’
“So, I spent the last four hours hopping on counters like a damn monkey to put everything away in the crazy tall cabinets. If you want me to be on time, maybe get me a stool, or a ladder, or a hot fireman to help.”
Dante looks me up and down. Mostly down. I’m not tall enough to be imposing. I imagine that to any observers, we look like two housecats hissing at each other, or a pair of lop-eared rabbits battling it out with their fluffy, chunky paws. At least IknowI’m little. Dante has the human equivalent of chihuahua syndrome.
“What, you can’t use one of the hockey players?” he demands. “They’re all huge. With arms like Stretch Armstrong.”
I bat my eyelashes at him. “Stretch Armstrong? Is that a reference from the time of the covered wagon? And interestingly enough, they all conveniently dipped out before the shipment arrived. Anyway, I’m here now.”
Dante’s jaw works, like he’s gearing up to tell me off, and then decides it’s not worth the effort. “So you are. Come on, I want to introduce you to the new winger. Despite being a first-round draft pick, and top goal scorer in the league, he had a previous head injury. Nothing major, but for what I paid for him, I want him in tip-top shape. You’ll be working with him. Be nice. He’s a big part of my—”
I jump in with all the air quotes my fingers can muster. “The Bring Back the Magic Campaign.”
Dante sighs and rubs his forehead. “You know, some people actually fear me.”
I shrug. “Some. Not all. You forget Knova and I are friends.” As far as I know, Knova has never actually delivered on her threats of bodily harm. That said, if any of us is going to snap, it’ll probably be her.
