Page 44 of The Blame Game

“Don’t get me wrong,” Ethan continued. “Makarov is great. But La Bouche …”

Dom grinned. “Yeah, that guy’s a shoo-in for the hall of fame. It won’t be long before they induct him, I’m sure.”

Shea stayed silent, only half-listening to the flow of conversation around him as he watched the city lights flicker across Dom’s face.

Shea couldn’t tear his gaze away, noting the crinkles at the corners of Dom’s eyes when he laughed at something Ethan or Myles said, liking the way he seemed at ease with them.

It meant nothing beyond the fact that Shea had great friends and—despite Dom’s closed-off nature—he was good at making conversation, good at putting people at ease, good at being ‘one of the guys’.

But Shea still felt a traitorous little twinge in his heart at the sight of Dom getting along with his friends.

And, as the SUV pulled up at the curb near the arena, he realized Dom’s leg was still firmly pressed against his.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Dom raised an eyebrow at Shea as an usher guided them through the arena halls to the swanky lounge their tickets gave them access to. Shea gave Dom a brief smile, then glanced away, responding to something Myles said.

In the lounge, Myles and Ethan quietly exclaimed over the food and drinks that were available free of charge, while Dom wondered who the hell had gifted Shea these tickets.

Clearly, the person had splurged on them. As they followed an usher all the way to their seats in the front row, Dom grew increasingly flabbergasted.

“Jesus, Shea,” he muttered. “Courtside? How good of a friend is this?”

Dom had sat courtside before. He knew exactly what four tickets there cost.

Shea shrugged. “I know him through work.”

Dom’s stomach sank. Wait, was this a client?

As they took their seats, Dom ended up on one end, with Shea next to him, then Ethan and Myles.

The seats themselves were close together and it was impossible to keep their arms and thighs from pressing together. Dom kept trying to pull away, not wanting any photographs to show them looking like they were too comfortable with each other’s bodies, but when he glanced over at Ethan and Myles, they were almost as close and Dom finally gave up.

Was he overthinking this? Maybe. Probably.

But he knew that they’d be photographed and that this would make the rounds on social media.

He hated the way they twisted things, feeling like they had the right to make up anything he didn’t willingly tell them.

Dom glanced around, surveying the arena. It was always strange being here as a spectator. Weirder even than sitting in the box when he was out as a healthy scratch or injured. And it never failed to blow his mind at how quickly they were able to transition the space from hockey to basketball.

Last night, a crew had removed the glass and boards, laid a subsurface down over the ice, then covered that with the wood panels of the basketball court. The court was smaller than the ice surface, so they’d brought in risers and the courtside seats and Dom marveled that he sat overtop of the ice right now.

Overnight, the crew would switch it back, and he’d play a game here in twenty-four hours.

“It’s crazy the way they convert these spaces,” Shea said a moment later, glancing around.

Dom laughed softly. “I was thinking the same thing.”

Some of the guys playing tonight came out onto the court for warmups and Dom idly watched as they dribbled the ball, then did a few free throw shots.

One of them, a tall, good-looking guy with medium brown skin and hair cut in a fade with short curls on top, approached.

Travis Rogers, number 77.

“Hey there, Barnett! Happy Birthday, man!” His shot them a bright grin, stopping in front of their seats.

“Hey!” Shea rose to his feet, his smile equally wide. “Good to see you.”

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