Page 3 of Tempting the Teammate
“That’s it.” I liked Jen, I won’t lie, but I wasn’t going to share the entire history of Griff and me with a big-eyed stranger, no matter how easy she made it to trust her. Griffin was my best friend. He had held that title for over a decade. He was in every good memory I had. He was in every important event of my life. He was a constant fact in my universe, like a monolith older than time itself. Those were the facts.
He also happened to be the only person I ever wanted to spend my life with. Now, that…that was daydreaming.
She watched me for a long moment, and I had the uncomfortable feeling she could see straight through whatever facade I thought I was maintaining.
“Okay,” she said finally. “One last question. What do you want people to see when they watch this show? What’s your story?”
I stared at the recording device, at the red light that meant everything I said was being captured, stored, ready to bebroadcast to strangers who would judge me based on thirty-second clips.
“I don’t have a story,” I said.
“Everyone has a story, Andrei.”
“Then maybe mine isn’t interesting enough.”
She smiled again. “Oh, I think it is. I think you’re going to be exactly what this show needs.”
I left the office without understanding what she meant, but with a cold certainty that I’d just signed up for something that would cost me more than I was prepared to pay. Griffin was waiting in the hallway, spinning his stick between his hands, and when he saw me, his face lit up with that golden retriever enthusiasm that made my chest ache.
“How’d it go?” he asked.
“Fine.”
“Just fine? Come on, you must have crushed it. You’re mysterious and brooding. Chicks dig that.”
If only he knew how wrong he was.
“Your turn,” I said, nodding toward the office door.
He grinned and shouldered past me, close enough that I caught the scent of his shampoo. “Watch and learn, Sokolov. This is how you win over a room.”
The door closed behind him, and I was left standing in the hallway, knowing with absolute certainty that Griffin would charm Jen the same way he charmed everyone. He would, without a shred of doubt, be the star of this show. And knowing just as certainly that I’d agreed to spend the next year watching it happen, cameras rolling, while I pretended not to care.
Phoenix emerged from the other end of the hall, looking like he’d swallowed something bitter. He caught sight of me and shook his head.
“What a joke,” he muttered. “They want us to be characters, not players.”
Through the office door, I could hear Griffin’s laugh, warm and genuine, followed by Jen’s responding chuckle. My stomach twisted.
“Yeah,” I said. “What a joke.”
But I was already in it now, for better or worse. And mostly, I suspected, for worse.
TWO
Griffin
The overhead stringlights cast everything in warm amber, making our room look like something out of a cozy cabin instead of a college dormitory. Two weeks had passed since Jen Harding had interviewed us all, and the semester was hitting its stride. Practice, gym sessions, and lectures were forming their familiar rhythm, though most of the guys were still riding the wave of welcome-back parties. The kegs would disappear soon enough once midterms started breathing down our necks, but for now, hangovers were more common than homework stress.
I glanced over at Andrei, who was sprawled across his bed with his digital camera balanced on his chest, clicking through photos. The braided leather bracelet I’d bought him at some Renaissance fair when we were kids was still wrapped around his left wrist, darker now from years of wear and sweat and rain. His light brown curls were messy from a shower, and the desk lamp next to his bed highlighted the sharp angles of his jaw as he concentrated on whatever he was reviewing.
Our room was pure organized chaos. Two beds, two desks, two closets that barely contained our gear. Hockey memorabilia covered every available surface: trophies from high schooltournaments, NHL team scarves draped over chair backs, a collection of action figures that had survived multiple moves. Stacks of comics mixed with textbooks on the shelves, and my gaming console sat beneath our wall-mounted TV like a faithful companion. The old paint stains on the carpet caught the light, stubborn reminders of whatever artistic episode had happened before we’d moved in. When I’d asked Phoenix about them after failing to scrub them out, he’d just grinned and said, “Oh, that’d be Sebastian when he got into finger painting. Good stuff, that,” without offering any further explanation.
My phone buzzed against the nightstand, lighting up with an email notification. The sender’s name made me sit up straighter.
“We got them,” I announced, excitement bubbling up before I’d even opened the message.
Andrei snorted without looking up from his camera. “Got what?”
