Page 79 of Forecheck
I didn’t respond, mostly because I knew she was right. Brent had unlocked something inside of me, bringing forth a girl who was more laid back and, dare I say, happy.
I loved that for me—and I think I lovedhimfor it, too.
I wasn’t sure what to expect when we arrived at the arena a few hours later. The concourse was packed with men, women, and children from all walks of life wearing a kaleidoscope of jerseys repping professional teams from Los Angeles to Boston.
By the time we made it to our seats, I was uneasy. Maybe I’d imagined it, but there seemed to be an awful lot of people, especially women, wearing Brent Jean jerseys to match the ones Lexie and I wore.
When we found our seats, a group of college-aged girls sat nearby, all wearing tight white tank tops with Brent’s face ironedonto them. Each tank was cut low to reveal a healthy amount of cleavage, and one girl held a large sign that read: “Brent Jean, #22 on the ice, #1 in my heart!” Another said: “Hey Jean, meet me in the penalty box!”
I looked down at my own jersey and frowned, until Lexie reminded me that Brent was with me, not them.
Still, for the rest of the afternoon, I couldn’t quite shake the feeling that Brent having a girlfriend wouldn’t stop any of these girls from throwing themselves at him if given the chance. Brent and I were in a very serious, very committed relationship, but knowing that didn’t make it any easier to witness the obsession female fans showed for my boyfriend. I was painfully aware of how easy it would be for one of them to get close to him on the road somewhere, and how easy it would be for him to do something he couldn’t take back.
Our relationship ending in anything less than forever would destroy me.
I didn’t think Brent would hurt me, but being cheated on left me jaded, and I’d never fully mastered those thoughts that constantly questioned his intentions. Which wasn’t fair to him, because he’d be nothing but attentive and all in with me.
Vowing to shake it off, I focused my attention on the ice, on my man out there doing his thing. I loved seeing Brent like that, enjoying himself, laughing with his colleagues, participating in—and winning—a few skills competitions. He wasn’t stressed about where his next goal was going to come from, or whether or not the Warriors were going to win. He was just having fun, putting on a show for the fans.
It made me fall for him a little bit more.
That evening, Lexie and I got all fancied up and headed to the lobby to meet Brent. The league was hosting a fundraising gala in one of the hotel’s big banquet halls, and all the players and their guests were invited to attend.
My dress was long, black, backless, and threaded with silver sparkles that glittered under the hotel lights. I felt sexy, my long blonde hair hanging down my back in waves, the brightness a direct contrast to the dark fabric of my dress. I felt like a goddess, and when we stepped into the lobby, the way Brent’s eyes darkened and a grin stretched his lips told me he agreed.
Crossing the distance between us, he swept me into a hug and kissed me, his mouth lingering against mine as if he hadn’t seen me in weeks. Returning me to the ground, he grabbed a healthy handful of my ass and whispered, “You look amazing.”
Nearby, Lexie gagged.
I chuckled, but thanked Brent, stepping back to check him out. Brent was sexy in all states, whether naked and moving over me, or in jeans and a tee, meeting me after practice for a quick lunch or dinner, or lounging at home in sweats.
But Brent in a tux took my breath away.
And being able to run my hands up his chest and feel the heat of his body through his dress shirt, knowing that later, I was the one that got to strip him out of it and feel that warmth beneath my mouth and against my skin? That was a novelty that would never wear off.
Some of the other hockey players walking by whistled and catcalled as we remained locked in each other’s arms. Most of them chirped Brent and complimented me, and Brent flipped every one of them off.
When we entered the ballroom, I realized that, while I was comfortable around the Warriors, I wasn’t nearly as cool and collected when rubbing elbows with the league’s best. Finding myself suddenly surrounded by players I’d been watching foryears—guys who, before Brent, I could’ve only dreamed of meeting—was unsettling, to say the least.
Shortly after arriving, Brent, Lexie, and I got separated, and I found myself chatting, about professional football of all things, with a rookie phenom. And when the goalie for the reigning Stanley Cup champions asked me what I did for a living, we had a half hour conversation about things he should look out for in his upcoming contract negotiations.
Brent came and went from my side, working the room, chatting with his Eastern Conference teammates and introducing me to a few guys on rival teams that he’d played with in college. Lexie was in her element, flitting about, turning heads everywhere she moved. Though I didn’t miss the fact that her phone was glued to her hand, presumably texting Mitch.
At one point, I excused myself from a group of WAGs to get another drink. I wandered around the room in search of a waiter with a tray of white wine and, upon finding one, paused to seek out my boyfriend.
“So you’re Brent Jean’s girlfriend,” a voice said from behind me, and I turned to a tall blond man eyeing me from five feet away.
“I am.”
The man approached, and I found myself looking into the cold blue gaze of Josef Bobal.
Bobal was notorious for dirty hits, including one on Brent during the first period of a Frozen Four semi-final game his senior season. Brent had needed stitches above his left eye, and he was knocked out for the rest of the game.
Bobal had gone on to score the game-winning goal.
“You’re shorter than I expected,” he said. “Typically, Jean goes for the leggy ones.”
I shrugged, refusing to let this guy get to me. “What can I do for you?”
