Page 120 of For the Boys
Brent came and went from her side, working his way around the room, chatting with his Eastern Conference teammates and introducing her friends to a few guys he’d played with in college who now played for rival teams.
Berkley excused herself from a group of wives and girlfriends she was chatting with to get another drink. She wandered around the room in search of a waiter with a tray of white wine, finding one and grabbing a glass. She took a sip before pausing to survey the room in search of her boyfriend.
“So you’re Brent Jean’s girlfriend,” a voice from behind her said, and she turned to find a tall blond man eyeing her from about five feet away.
“I am,” she said. He approached, and she found herself looking up into the cold blue gaze of Josef Bobal.
Bobal was notorious amongst Warriors fans, having been the perpetrator of a number of dirty hits against Warriors players over the years.
He was also responsible for a hit on Brent during the first period of the Frozen Four game his senior season. Brent needed stitches, knocking him out for the rest of the game, and Bobal went on to score the game-winning goal.
“You’re shorter than I suspected,” he said. “Typically, Jean goes for the leggy ones.”
Berkley shrugged. “What can I do for you?”
“Do you know who I am?”
“Unfortunately,” she said, taking a step back when he moved closer.
“Why unfortunate?” he asked, taking another step toward her. Berkley kept moving away from him until her back was pressed against a table.
“I think you’re a dirty hockey player. You’re notorious for making dangerous hits and getting away with them, including one last season against my friend, Tommy Grey.”
His scornful laugh sent a chill down her spine. He stepped closer and dropped his voice to barely above a whisper. “I could show you dirty. Way better than pretty-boy Brent Jean ever could. Would you like that?”
“I don’t think she would,” Brent said, materializing from behind Bobal. Reaching Berkley in two long strides, he drew her protectively into his side. “Hi, baby,” he said without glancing at her, eyes focused on the man in front of them. “Are you ready to go?”
“Yes, please,” she said.
Typically, Berkley hated when Brent went all overprotective on her, but Bobal creeped her out, and in this moment, she was happy to be rescued.
“Aww, come on,” Bobal said to their retreating backs. “Things were just getting interesting around here.”
“Ignore him,” Brent said under his breath. Berkley wasn’t sure if he was saying it for her benefit or his own.
“I fucking hate that guy,” Brent said as he led Berkley away from the party. “The shit he was saying about you last weekend…”
Berkley stopped walking in the middle of the lobby. “What do you mean?”
Brent’s eyes went wide, then he dropped his gaze, reaching up to nervously grip the back of his neck. “So…I may have lied about why I punched him during that game.”
“Tell me exactly what happened.”
Brent glanced around at the stares they were drawing. “Can we talk about this upstairs? Please?” His pleading eyes had Berkley relenting and following him into the elevator.
The moment they were safely ensconced in Brent’s room, she whirled on him.
“So you punched him because of me. Not because of Grey.”
“Berk, you don’t even want to know the shit he was saying about you. I just lost it.”
“I actually do want to know what he said. I have a right to know.”
“Just…” Brent sat down at the foot of the bed and scrubbed his hands through his hair, a gesture Berkley secretly loved even though she knew he only did it when he was anxious or stressed. “He said that you’re hot, which you are, but you’re like every other puck bunny, only with me for my money, which I know isn’t true. He asked me if I wouldn’t mind sharing you and said he was going to slide into your DMs so he could take a run at you the next time they’re in Detroit. It made my blood boil, Berkley. What else could I do but hit him?”
Berkley slipped her heels off and walked over to him, resting her hands on his shoulders. He gripped her hips as she climbed up to straddle his lap, her dress pooling around her waist.
“That will never happen,” she said. “He’s not even my type. And let me remind you”—she kissed him lightly—“I’m not with you for your money. This thing between us has never been about the money for me. I’m not even with you because you’re the sexiest man I’ve ever laid eyes on. I’m with you because of the man you are. The kind, sweet, loyal, incredibly generous man you are.”
