An usher helps me find my seat where Garrett and Logan are near the end of the row. I squeeze in between the guys, who are discussing Logan’s upcoming trip to Paris. He’s leaving in a couple of weeks and will be gone for a month. Lucky Grace. I don’t know how Logan managed to weasel out of a month’s worth of off-season team activities. Garrett hates doing that stuff.
“I can’t wait to see the ol’ ball and chain,” Logan says.
I give him a saccharine smile. “I’m telling Grace you called her that.”
He pales. “God, please don’t.”
Next to me, Garrett is now visibly sulking. “I still can’t believe you got married without me,” he accuses his best friend.
I fight a laugh. “It’s not a team sport, sweetie.”
He ignores me. “I was supposed to be your best man.” He leans past me to glare at Logan. “You realize this means when Wellsy and I have a wedding, you’re not best man number one anymore. I’m giving it to Dean. Dean, Tucker, then you.”
Logan leans forward too. “No, you’re not. It’s going to be me first.”
Garrett sighs. “It’s going to be you first.”
“You two want to get a room?” I ask as they practically hang over me, making googly eyes at each other.
“Shhh, Wellsy,” Logan chides, as if I’m the obnoxious one. “It’s starting.”
Sure enough, the house lights dim. A moment later, a presentation begins playing on stage, a highlight reel of the last season. I take the opportunity to shift closer to Garrett’s broad body, bringing my lips to his ear.
“Did you know your dad was going to be here?” I whisper.
His expression falls flat. The same thin lips and dead eyes I see every time he’s forced to play nice with that man at some press function. As much as I hate ruining his good mood, it’ll be worse if I don’t alert him.
“I had no idea.”
“I guess he’s presenting an award?”
“Landon should’ve warned me,” he mutters, referring to his agent.
His hand tightens around mine, and I know he’s battling all his simmering rage. Nothing flips his switch faster, casts a darkness over him, than having to be around his father.
Sympathy mingles with the lingering nausea in my belly. Tonight was supposed to be another big milestone in Garrett’s career, a proud moment for him. Instead, he’ll spend it being forced to smile and pose for the cameras with the man who used to beat the hell out of him.
33
Garrett
We can’t get to the bar fast enough once the show ends and we’re all ushered into a ballroom for the after-party. My girl doesn’t usually like me to drink at these things, for fear I’ll make an ass of myself to some reporter. Tonight, she takes the award out of my hand and replaces it with a glass of scotch. Maybe she hopes it’ll distract me. Or dull my instincts. I doubt it, though. I’m always on high alert when my father is around, wholly aware of his proximity. I spotted him the moment we walked in and have tracked him across the room as he works his way through the pop of camera flashes.
“You don’t have to do this,” Hannah says, eyeing me cautiously over the rim of her glass of sparkling water. Guess she figures one of us better be sober if I end up in jail tonight. “We can skip this.”
“Landon would have a fit if I didn’t play ball.”
My sports agent would be here pimping me out to the press and working me around the room if he hadn’t come down with food poisoning last night. Which I guess is what I pay him for, even if this is the part of the business I would rather live without.
“Is that why he didn’t warn you Phil was here?”
I’d wasted no time shooting an angry text to my agent the second the ceremony was over. “He claims he had no idea. Apparently Viktor Ivanov bailed at the last minute, so they swapped in Phil.”
My gaze flicks toward him again. He’s chatting up the team owner from Dallas, dropping that phony laugh of his.
“We won’t stay long,” I tell Hannah, rubbing the small of her back with my thumb.
Touching her keeps the more destructive thoughts out of my head. She looks so hot tonight in that long silver dress that clings to all the right places. If I wasn’t so tense right now and so hypervigilant of my father’s presence, I’d be trying to coax her somewhere private and sliding my hand beneath that slinky fabric. Make her come in a coat closet or go down on her in a supply room somewhere.
“I’ll be right here,” she promises.
I don’t doubt it. Hannah Wells is my rock. I’m not one to brag, but—okay, fine, I’m absolutely one to brag. But I’m pretty sure Wellsy and I have the healthiest relationship of any couple ever. After four years together, it’s undeniable: we’re simply the best. Our communication skills are top-notch. The sex is fucking unreal. When we first hooked up in college, I never in a million years imagined we’d fall in love, or that we’d eventually move in together, build a life together. Yet here we are.