Page 25 of Famous Last Words
The second I step out of the locker room and into the tunnel, I’m inundated by kids. Kids fucking everywhere.
“Robbie? Can I get a photo?”
I’m temporarily blinded by the flash of a camera.
“Robbie, will you sign my jersey?”
Sharpies galore are thrust in my face.
“Robbie!”
“Robbie!”
“Robbie!”
My heart rate increases, and it’s suddenly stifling. It’s not that I don’t like kids. I love them. Their excitement is genuine. Hell, I used to be these kids. But sometimes it’s hard to feel like nothing more than an object.
I go through the motions, signing what I can, smiling whenever I see a phone shoved in my face, but I’m not really present, and I hate that. These kids wait around all night to see me, and most of them probably live out of the city. I owe it to the kids; they’re the reason I’m here.
Just as I’m getting done with the last of the adorable little hockey wannabes, I’m mid-autograph on an oversized Thunder foam finger when I glance up, doing a double-take when my eyes land on Keller. She’s oblivious to me, talking animatedly to a hot brunette I’ve never seen before, and something unfamiliar stirs in my chest. Strangely, it’s got nothing to do with the hot brunette and everything to Fran Keller. What the hell?
As one of the kids says something to me, I’m not even listening; my attention is wholeheartedly captivated by the bane of my existence, standing there wearingmyjersey. I know I told her to wear it. But seeing her now is doing something to me that I do not fucking like.
I don’t know. Maybe I took more blows to the head tonight than I remember because, fuck me, with those tight jeans hugging her thick thighs and curvy ass, her blonde hair cascading down over shoulders, and my name adorned across her back… call me fucking crazy but does she look… hot?
At that moment, as if she can hear my thoughts, Fran turns her head, her big blue eyes meeting mine. And the genuine smile I saw on her face seconds ago immediately falls. And thank God, too, because it’s like a refreshing slap to the face; she’s still the same old stick-up-her-ass Keller, the girl who made me shit myself during my first game with Belmont Prep when I was seventeen.
I release the breath I’ve been holding and hand the Sharpie back to one of the kids’ parents, smiling down at my fan club of fourteen-year-olds before stepping around them and closing the distance between me and my fake fucking girlfriend.
CHAPTER 12
FRAN
Istand back against the wall, watching Robbie start toward me. And holy shit. The man can wear a suit like nobody’s business. I find myself unable to look away. Dressed in a navy two piece that fits him like a glove, there’s a serious swagger to his strides, and it’s almost as if he’s in slow motion.
Pushing his damp hair out of his eyes, Robbie lifts his chin at me, offering that cocky smirk as he comes closer. And come on. I’m not a complete ignoramus; I know the man is attractive. In that conceited way that’s obnoxious and a complete turnoff. Absolutelynotmy type, but I can see how he has his fangirls in a chokehold.
“Hey,baby,” Robbie murmurs, his voice low and raspy, doing that thing to me again. The thing I refuse to acknowledge because if I pretend it’s not happening, then it isnothappening.
He wraps an arm around me, pulling me close, and my body goes rigid at his touch. I hold a hand against his unsurprisingly rock-hard chest in a way that I hope comes across as a tender, loving touch when, in actual fact, it’s me holding him at bay because if he gets any closer, I might very well punch him in the dick and risk blowing our cover.
“Who’s your friend?” Robbie lifts his chin at Hannah, and I don’t miss the spark of interest flare in his dark eyes. Men are so obvious, it’s embarrassing.
Before I can respond, Robbie extends his hand to Hannah. “Robbie Mason. Hero of the night.”
I almost laugh out loud when Hannah glances at me, one of her eyebrows arching slightly higher. I can tell she’s biting back a guffaw as she shakes his proffered hand. “Hannah Draper. Daughter of your coach.”
My gaze flits to Robbie just in time to see his face paling, Adam’s apple bobbing with a hard swallow. “Um, oh. H-hey—” He squares his shoulders. “N-nice to meet you.”
I’m forced to contain my smirk, pressing my lips together, because Robbie Mason bumbling all over himself is hilarious.
“You played a good game,” Hannah says.
Before Robbie can collect himself enough to respond, we’re interrupted by a tall drink of water who looks as if he stepped straight off the cover of the latestGQ, dressed in a Gucci monogram suit that hugs him in all the right places and on anyone else would look utterly ridiculous, fashionable scruff shadowing his jaw, golden brown hair damp and tousled to perfection. Is being unfairly attractive an ice hockey prerequisite or what?
“Yo, Han, how’s your bod, baby?” the man says by way of greeting, an obvious southern accent laced through his words.
Hannah looks at me and scoffs, rolling her eyes before craning her neck to spear the man with a bored glance. “Dallas, don’t you have a bevy of desperate bunnies to go chase?”
