Page 13 of Home for the Hockey-Days

He points to his right. “Take a left at the end of the hallway.”

I nod and follow the arrows to the grand ballroom. Inside, it’s much of the same, lots of sparkle, twinkling lights, glitz and glam, and I don’t get two feet into the room before a server passes with a tray of bite-sized... somethings.

Who the hell came up with the idea of eating miniature versions of anything? That’s not my jam. Give me the full sized option, and give me lots of it. Another server pauses with a tray of champagne flute glasses. She holds the tray out to me. “Apple cider?”

“No alcohol?”

She shakes her head. “It’s a dry party.”

Nice. My shoulders relax a bit. I might think they’re entitled, but I'm big enough to admit that I like that the twins haven’t tried to pay their way into getting alcohol served to underage kids here.

No one’s going to be swinging from the pretty chandeliers overhead, streaking through the hotel, or skinny dipping in the pool.

At least not because of booze at the party.

What they do outside this room is their own problem. Inside these four walls, I’m in Captain Mode. These assholes are my responsibility, all of them. And there’ll be no front-page drama on my watch.

I should have thought to give a hockey stick to the guy at the check in desk and have all the team sign it when they head to their hotel rooms like I do when we travel for away games. It was something the departing captain told me last year, a handy dandy trick to make sure everyone makes curfew.

You give a hockey stick to the receptionist and ask them to take the time when each of the players sign it. If they’re a hockey fan, they get to keep the stick. It can be a costly process, and it’s not always necessary. But when Coach enforces a curfew, or we have a big game coming up, it’s a sneakily easy way to make sure everyone gets to where they’re supposed to be without me standing guard over the whole team.

Win-win.

Sticking to the periphery of the room, I’m on my second glass of apple cider. I’ve had about a dozen hors d'oeuvres, and I’m still starving. These things aren’t real fucking food. They’re tasty, but they aren’t actual nourishment. My stomach says so.

Scanning the room, mostly in search for something I can actually sink my teeth into, my eyes land on someone I wasn’t expecting to see here, and I choke on the tiny puff of cheese pastry I just swallowed. Fuck. Thumping at my chest, I flag down a passing server to give me another flute of cider. She waits for me to drain it and take another before she hurries off.

Should have asked for a tall glass of water. Fuck.

Blurry eyes, burning throat, and flakes of pastry still stuck in my esophagus, I’ve never been more relieved than when the server appears with a giant glass of water. “Thanks,” I croak, but I can’t take my eyes off the vision, the ethereal, the fucking goddess standing right there in my line of sight.

Rowan.

Sipping my water, I take her in. Her hair hangs loose over her shoulders. She’s wearing a gold, sleevelessdress that flatters her tits and waist, falling to her mid-thigh in loose pleats. A wide black belt and strappy black sandals finish the look, and she holds a small black clutch against her side. I damn near swallow my tongue.

Holy fuck.

How am I going to be able to sit across a table from her to learn math?

Fair enough, if anyone’s going to convince my brain to absorb complex equations and math it’s going to be the most intelligent and beautiful woman in the room, right? Right. I just need to figure out how to stop staring and drooling over her because that shit’s not cool.

The person she’s talking to moves into view. It’s Athena de la Peña, oldest of the four de la Peña siblings, resident boss bitch, and scariest motherfucker on campus. She’s every bit as wealthy as her younger brothers, but much smarter. At least so the rumors go, I don’t know her at all.

They’re clearly good friends, from the relaxed posture, the warm smiles, and the fact it’s commonly known that Athena keeps her circle small.

My stomach falls.

Standing here looking in on my new tutor hanging out with a billionaire heiress, it’s hard to miss the subtle extravagance painted all over her body. How can I compete with that? What can I give her that she can’t just buy for herself?

Fuck.

The perfectly manicured nails, the expensive looking dress, I bet those shoes cost at least a grand. The vision standing in front of me is a contradiction to the scared woman who broke down crying in the parking lot a few days ago when she realized she had no insurance.

Which is the real Rowan?

Is she poor like me, but doing what she can to keep up with the de la Peñas? Or was it all an act, and she was playingme like a fucking fool to gain my sympathy because turning on the water works might get her out of trouble? If that was the case, why would she need the de la Peña’s money for tutoring me?

It doesn’t make sense.

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