Total pages in book: 149
Estimated words: 145731 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145731 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
I pick up the glass, eye the festive decoration, and flick it aside, refusing to let holiday cheer sully my drink. No way am I turning down a Macallan. Especially since I’m not driving tonight.
I take a long swallow, enjoying the burn in my throat, and then fix my stare on the group. If this is their idea of a prank, more power to them. A matchmaker for me is a most excellent April Fool’s joke. But it’s November, a day past Thanksgiving, and the joke’s gone on a little too long.
Plus, Miles and Tyler have roped in half the team for this prank. Hugo, another defenseman, leans against the bar, grinning like this is the funniest thing he’s seen all year. Wesley, our winger-slash-playlist curator, chats with Asher—also a winger and officially the nicest guy on the planet. Even Max, our goalie and former team grump, nurses a drink here as he hangs out with the other guys in this corner of the bar. It feels like a trap. I’m pretty sure that’s because it is.
“I smell a rat,” I say, narrowing my eyes.
“You’ve got a good nose,” Tyler says, clapping me on the back.
Then the lead rat himself strolls in—my agent, Jason. Black hair, a movie star smile, and an expensive suit. I point at him like we’re in a court of law. “Did you put those clowns up to it?”
“Up to what?” Jason asks, too innocently.
“You know what.” I spread my arms, indicating the whole crew. “Also, you weren’t at the auction, so why the hell are you here now?” The smell of rat intensifies.
“I wouldn’t miss this post-auction moment for the world,” Jason says. He might as well be tossing popcorn into his mouth. “The wife and I put the kids to bed, and then I hoofed it over.”
I huff. “What the hell is this?”
Jason smirks. “Merry Christmas, Rowan.” He nods toward the guys gathered around the sleek hotel bar, which reeks of luxury, good times, and festive nights. “Did you thank your teammates for the gift?”
I turn to Tyler, my jaw ticking. “You’re the mastermind, aren’t you? You do know people can refuse gifts. It’s a thing.”
Tyler clears his throat. “Yeah, about that.”
I groan and drag a hand through my hair, not liking his response. Not one bit. “What part of ‘I can just refuse’ are you not getting?”
Miles drums his fingers on the counter, his expression turning serious. “You could, Rowan…but this is for your own good.”
And there it is. That captain voice. The tone Miles uses when shit’s going sideways in a game. The tone that tells me I’ve crossed a line. It has the reaction in me he’s probably hoping for—I sit up straighter.
“What’s going on?” I ask, all focus now.
Miles draws a deep breath. “Think of this,” he says, gesturing to all the guys who have my back on the ice in every game, “as a team intervention. That’s why we’re all here.”
A holiday intervention? I swallow uncomfortably, my arms tensing. I don’t like the sound of this. And I sure as hell don’t like the sound of Wham!’s “Last Christmas” playing in the background, the lyrics about someone giving away the heart they were given hitting a little too close to home.
“An intervention,” I repeat, my voice sharp with disbelief. “For what, exactly?”
Max raises his glass like he’s making a toast. “You’ve had it rough in the romance department. I get that. You were served a shit platter on top of a shit sandwich on top of a shit ice cream sundae.” There’s a touch of sympathy in Max’s voice, the sound of a man who’s been put through the romance wringer too. He pauses, eyes locked on me, then says bluntly. “It’s time to start over. And you need this.”
“I don’t need this,” I counter, since I’m not like him; I haven’t found a silver lining to love the way he has, “any more than I need a shit sandwich.”
The guys laugh, but Miles doesn’t break his serious expression as he takes over the conversation—I mean, intervention—again. “You do, man,” he says, clearly meaning it from the bottom of his heart. “That’s why we all pitched in. We want a new chance for you.”
“For fuck’s sake,” I mutter, irritation rising like a wave. I’m pissed now. But in the way I get mad when I fail at blocking a shot that sneaks into the net. “Why?”
Asher steps in, calm as ever, warm as the sun on a cold day. “The Christmas Eve gala is coming up. It’s the team’s biggest fundraiser of the year.”
Right, I know that. The Nutcracker Auction kicks off the season of fundraising for the team and the charities we support. “So?”
“So, you need a date,” Tyler says matter-of-factly.
I flap a hand toward the godforsaken, overdecorated Snowflake Room I was in earlier tonight. “I didn’t have a date here tonight. I didn’t have one to the Christmas Eve gala last year. Or the few years before.”