Page 32 of In The Game

“Guest box, Superior on the east end. We need a quick meet and greet. Shake a few hands, say thanks, and then you can go get your dicks sucked.”

A blowjob does sound pretty great. I’ll take a second release.

“What’s it for?” I suspect a charity; I don’t mind doing it if it’s for a good cause.

“Method Marketing,” Carlos, the event coordinator, shouts across the room. “They’re looking at becoming a sponsor. We’re trying to woo them. They’re running next season’s ad campaign. There’s a banquet tonight for some of the directors and execs, we need a quick show-your-face snap-a-few-pictures time as a way to show our appreciation.”

Thanks for what? Paying them?

“Shouldn’t they be trying to woous?” Jonesy asks.Smartest thing he’s said all damn day.

“It’s a partnership. We’re essentially bartering services to try them out. Look, we need this. Just give them ten minutes. Tops. We’ll send in someone to pull you if it goes longer than fifteen.”

I groan. I’m exhausted. The last thing I want to do is head up to the guest box and do some stupid autograph ass-kissing meet and greet with a bunch of boring executives, their snobby wives, and shithead kids. I hate pandering to these money-grubbing corporations. It’s bad enough that hockey itself is so expensive and privileged that it creates a classist hierarchy among players—now we have to deal with the corporate horse-and-pony show too?

This is something I’m working on changing with Camp Conway, but when I’m forced to do this shit, it makes me feel even more defeated.

But asses in seats, right? I get it.

FOURTEEN

This blows.

Sully, Kucera, and I head up to the club box in our post-game suits, Carlos leading the way. We would rather be anywhere else. We’re dog-tired and the only energy left in us is reserved for throwing back a couple beers at Top Shelf. I should quit griping; I can spare ten minutes.

As soon as we enter through the double doors, Carlos grabs everyone’s attention and thanks them for…honestly, I'm not listening. He opens a duffle bag full of Lakes swag to hand out to the directors and their families. There are tables set up throughout the massive box suite that overlooks the ice. Below, fans are still clearing out.

We make our way around the room, shaking hands, taking selfies, and signing gear while getting congratulations and slaps on the back for the overtime win.

While making small talk, I hear a familiar voice behind me.

“Arthur, can you please get your jacket? We need to leave now.”

I’m in conversation with an attendee and trying to focus on what they’re saying, but all I hear is that voice behind me.

My ears must be messing with me. It sounds like Raleigh.It must be the exhaustion of the game. My mind has played tricks on me like this a million times before, and it’s never her. But then I pick up on the barely there southern twang. I excuse myself and frantically scan the room for platinum-blonde hair. A woman crouched on the floor gathers a handful of toy cars, but she’s much curvier than Raleigh, and her hair is darker,but that voice.

I cross the couple of tables in front of her to get a better look. I blink a few times.

Fuck me.It’s her!

Adrenaline courses through my veins and a smile explodes on my face.

The woman I haven’t been able to get out of my head for half a decade is right in front of me. And goddamn, she’s even more gorgeous than I remember. My throat feels thick, and my feet move without even thinking.

She looks up at me with those light-brown eyes, and it takes my breath away.

“Raleigh?”

“Don’t worry, we’re leaving.”

I flinch.Ouch. Nice to see you too?

“We?”

A young boy runs up to her. “Got my coat, Mom!” He throws it in her arms.

The smile on my face drops.

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