Page 90 of Enticing the Enforcer
“That obvious, huh?”
“Probably not to all those people in there, but to me? Yeah.” He frowns. “You’re hurting. Talk to me.”
“I don’t even know where to begin.” Madison? Jefferson? Jake? The last five years? It’s all a blur of manipulation and half-truths, leaving me gaslit, twisted up, and completely out of control.
“Start wherever you want.” He pulls another cigarette from his pack, balancing it between his fingers. “But I’ll warn you–we’ve got maybe half a cigarette before your mother sends out a search party.”
I laugh, a quick, startled sound. He’s always had a way of breaking tension without even trying. So I tell him. A condensed version, quick and messy, spilling out before I can stop myself. He listens without interrupting, just takes a long drag when I finish.
“Out of all that,” he says finally, smoke curling into the night, “what makes you the most upset?”
“Losing Jefferson.” The words slip out before I can filter myself.
“Then focus on that.”
“I’m not sure if it’s that easy.”
“Nothing worth fighting for is easy, Ingrid. You know that better than anyone.”
He’s right, of course. I’ve fought to be seen and to be taken seriously in this industry for years. I’ve fought to be represented, to have ownership. But this is different, isn’t it?
“I’m the one that didn’t allow him to explain himself.” I swallow, throat tight. “I’ve been ignoring him all week. Full-on ghosting. Except now, he hasn’t called in twenty-four hours, so… he probably took the hint. I may have completely screwed this up.”
My father looks at me, steady and certain in a way I’m not. “That’s the thing about love, Ing. If it’s real, it’ll keep finding you. You just have to be ready to receive it.”
“I don’t know if that’s true.”
“With the actors and musicians, maybe not, but a man who chases pucks for a living? Who wants to win more than anything else? I wouldn’t give up on him yet.”
He stubs out the cigarette and hides it under a planter to come back for later, then crooks his arm for me to link with his. I slip mine through, grateful for the quiet solidarity. Maybe I’ve lost my grip on love, maybe I don’t know who to believe anymore–but at least tonight, I know I’m not alone.
28
Jefferson
I’ve beenin big arenas, staring down an opponent twice my size, sweating so hard it stung my eyes, but walking up the marble steps to Ingrid Flockton’s mansion in Miami is a whole different kind of pressure.
The Flock Foundation Ball. The place is glowing like it’s alive with floodlights cutting across the manicured lawns, cameras flashing from behind the velvet ropes, valets in white gloves opening doors for athletes, actors, models, the kind of people I used to see on TV. I can feel the eyes on me before I even tell the woman at the door my name.
“Good evening,” she says, drinking me in. At least I look the part.
“Jefferson Parks, Surge Hockey,”My name is on the list, I want to add, but hold back, just giving her a small grin. I still can’t believe Lila pulled it off, greasing wheels and sliding my name onto the guest list like it belonged there.
Clean suit. Pressed shirt. Tie I redid three times before I got in the Uber. I’m not unfamiliar with dressing up. I’ve escortedwomen to all kinds of team and sorority events. I’m a good-looking guy, that’s a fact, and maybe I should feel out of place, but I don’t. This is where a career in hockey will take me, and I’m ready for it. I’m okay with the spotlight. The only problem is that, for this specific event, I’m not sure I’m welcome.
I’m waved through with a quick grin, and inside the air-conditioning hits me with a rush of chilled air, carrying perfume, champagne, and money. Everything is polished to perfection–the chandeliers, the white and gold floral arrangements, the endless champagne flutes balanced on silver trays. My heart hammers against my ribs, because I know she’s here.
And then I see her.
Ingrid Flockton, center of the universe.
The metallic gown clings to her like it was poured over her body, molten steel that shifts under the lights with every move she makes. Her hair is pulled back sleek, exposing the line of her neck. It’s dyed a shade darker than the last time I saw her. More violet than lavender. Just seeing her is electric. Like sticking a fork in a socket. Every nerve in me sparks alive, screaming that this–her–is what I’ve been starving for. She’s who had me spun out.
And now that I’m here, there’s no doubt in my mind: This is it. This is the chance. My boom box moment.
“Good evening, Mr. Parks.”
Fuck.
