Page 133 of Off-Ice Misconduct
Damien raises a brow, probably questioning our ability to remain mature enough to broker this fellowship.
I swear to fucking god. Love is going to end us all.
I shake my head. “Don’t worry about them. Do we have a deal, or what?”
“We have a deal, McKinnon.”
“And no one’s going to wrap me in plastic wrap?” I check, because I’m still clocking that vibe.
“Depends. Are you going to give up who flooded our frat house? I know you fucking know.”
“Never.” I’ll freeze my nuts off all night, cinched to a tree via Saran Wrap with wood bugs crawling up my ass before I give up Luke.
“Then no promises,” Damien says with a grin.
I know the money’s not in the bank yet, and a lot could go wrong, but things feel better already. Like we’ve climbed halfway up the hole my blunder got us into. Yeah, mine. The guys were right that it could have been any one of us, but it happened to be mine. I want to make sure I do everything I can to make it right.
Lars runs out of the house, breathless, before we can enter. “Guy. Important. In the house.”
“Slow down, man.”
“Someone’s here to see you. He’s from the NHL.”
“Like, an agent or something?”
He shakes his head. “A team owner.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.” Team owners don’t take special trips from their ivory towers to talk to players. They get their staff to do it.
Lars shrugs. “When are you gonna get used to it, Ace? The world wants you. The world makes exceptions for you.”
He’s not mocking me, he means it. He believes the world should make exceptions for me. I’m so totally gonna tell Luke that as soon as I see him. He’s going to think I’ve learned nothing.
I know who it is as soon as I see the devilishly handsome man in Armani, but my eyes must be deceiving me. It can’t be, but it is. Edward Arovini. His family owns the Vancouver Orcas. He’s a long way from Canada.
“Ace McKinnon. You’re surprisingly hard to track down. May I have a minute of your time?”
30
Ace
It’s Saturday, only the second Saturday since this whole fucking thing started, but it feels like a lifetime. We’re sitting in the locker room before a home game against Los Angeles U, fitting in five minutes to go over Beta Sigma’s proposed rollout schedule. Shep and Bender are still at odds, Lars keeps suggesting inappropriate merch ideas, and somehow, I’m supposed to be the adult in the room.
Where are Luke and Coach when I need them?
Right. Dealing with their shit. Something fucking else happened. Luke said he’d tell me when he could—he’d rather in person than text—but there hasn’t been time.
With one of my gloves tucked under my arm and the chill of the arena creeping in from the door, I scroll through the email, smiling. This is gonna work. It’s so totally gonna work. I can feel it. I should be happy.
I am happy.
Except when I remember the look on Arovini’s face. Like he already owned me. Like it wasn’t just an opportunity, it was a done deal.
Talk about a negotiator. That guy’s a fucking shark.
The guys pestered me about it afterward, dying to hear what he said, but I couldn’t bring myself to tell them. Not yet. Hell, even Luke doesn’t know. Not because it’s a secret, exactly. I haven’t figured out how to say, “Hey, the future came knocking” when the present still feels like it’s bleeding out.
Dragging my feet wasn’t because my NHL dream faded, it was because signing any contract meant accepting that my college career—the last thing Mom physically touched while we filled out admissions bullshit together—was ending.
