Once again our eyes meet and hold. The air thickens around us. “Is that what you were trying to do?”
Before she can answer, Théo appears, followed by Lacey and Taylor with full wineglasses.
“I brought the bottle,” Lacey says, setting it in front of Everly. “Because I knew you’d need a refill in about two minutes.”
Everly laughs and reaches for it. “Why not? I’m not driving anywhere.”
“My place is definitely walking distance,” I say with a wink. “Just keep it in mind.”
Chapter 5
Everly
No, I didn’t spend the night at Wyatt’s place again, tempting as it was. I was a good girl, like I always try to be, and kept to my side of the bed I shared with Taylor.
But I was thinking about him.
I’ve been thinking about him a lot in the week since then. Now it’s the night before the Birds Banquet and I’m not just thinking about Wyatt, I’m thinking about a million things. This is the biggest fundraiser of the year for the Foundation.
What if no one comes tomorrow night? What if we’ve done all this work for nothing?
What if people do come, but the food is awful? What if one of the chefs doesn’t show up? What if there’s a fire and we have to evacuate the arena?
I know these things are ridiculous. Of course I know it. I just can’t stop thinking them.
It’s how I roll.
What if I slept with Wyatt and he told the whole team I’m an über slut and everyone hates me and mocks me?
What if I get to the banquet and I go completely tongue-tied and have no idea what to say to anyone? I picture myself hiding in the ladies’ room all evening because I’m too terrified to interact with people.
My breathing is getting faster. My heart rate accelerates.
I slip my earbuds in and turn on my brain music, as I call it. I lay down on my yoga mat in my bedroom and close my eyes, focusing on breathing all the way into my belly.
As a kid, I always worried. I used to think about my homework when I lay in bed in case I forgot something. If Dad was out late, I worried that something happened to him. I worried that our house would catch fire. I always wanted to know what was going to happen next, tomorrow, tonight, this afternoon.
It wasn’t really a problem until I was a teenager. Until I made the worst decision of my life. Until Mom and Dad had to get involved with aspects of my life I never wanted them to. After that, I had a hard time living with how I’d failed them.
Then my crazy catastrophizing started to interfere with my life. I nearly missed an exam in college because I couldn’t make myself leave the house. I missed parties. I couldn’t pick up the phone to make a doctor’s appointment, even though I knew I needed to. My first panic attack landed me in the hospital. It was embarrassing, but also a relief to know what was wrong, and it pushed me to get help.
I think about the guests who are coming tomorrow night, mentally matching names to faces, trying to remember facts about the people I know so I can make small talk with them. I review my lists in my head. I’ve already double- and triple-checked things, but maybe I’ve forgotten some detail…
And I breathe. In…out…in…out.
It’s going to be fine. Details don’t matter. If there’s a flower arrangement missing from a table, nobody will care. If things don’t go perfectly, it’s not the end of the world. The only one who expects perfection is me.
It’ll be fine.
I think about Wyatt. I think about the feel of his mouth on mine, the taste of him. I think about his hands on my body. I remember how he feels under my hands, smooth skin over firm muscle, the big, hard bones of his shoulders, the insistent bulge at his groin that made my inner muscles squeeze and ache. The way I rubbed against him where I needed to be touched and it felt so good.
* * *
—
I’m still thinking about Wyatt the next night, but now it’s because he’s not here, dammit.
I’m in the Santa Monica Coliseum, in the thick of the Birds’ Banquet. All kinds of celebrities are here—pop singer Jordyn Banks, although her husband, Chase Hartman, who plays for the Chicago Aces, isn’t with her; several Hollywood actors; the Lakers even have a whole table. My parents are here, schmoozing with the Gretzkys, and Dan Diaz is here. He’s not really my date, but we’re sitting together for dinner. I had to be here early to oversee the setup and preparations.
I’m okay. I’m okay. Everything is going fine.
You’d think I’d be used to things like this, and I am, but I can’t help the butterflies and sweaty palms and fluttery heartbeats I’ve been enduring since yesterday. I only slept about two hours last night because my mind wouldn’t shut off, still thinking through every detail of the event in case I’d forgotten something. The harder I tried not to think about it, the more I thought about it.
Deep breaths. In…two…three…four…five. Out…two…three…four…five.
I do this a few times. Does it help? I’m not sure.
I survey ice level of the arena.
Twenty of the top chefs in Los Angeles are here, donating their time to cook amazing dishes for the guests, and the Condors players are here, dressed in tuxes and white aprons to serve the dinner. Right now, they’re mingling with guests for cocktail hour. Some of them seem to enjoy it, others are more awkward, looking like they’d rather be in goal with no equipment, facing Ovechkin on a breakaway. But at least they’re here. Unlike Wyatt Bell.
I grit my teeth as I smile at the coach of the team, Dave Martin, and his wife, Mia.
“So nice to see you again,” I say. “How are your kids?” They have two teenage girls, if I remember correctly.
Mia smiles. “Growing up so fast! They’re in high school now. Both have boyfriends.” She grimaces.
I laugh. “That’s fun, though.”
We chat a bit, and then Matt and Honey Heller approach us. I greet them with hugs. “Hi! So great to see you!”
We have all kinds of connections. Matt used to play for the Condors; Honey’s dad, Steve Holbrook, and my dad were both owners of the team for a while, until Dad bought him out; Mom and Dad are friends with Steve and Sela Holbrook; and Honey used to work for the Foundation years ago. She still does some volunteer work for us, to help with fundraising.
“Hi!” Honey greets me with a hug. “You look amazing! I love your dress.”
“Thank you. You too.”
I greet Matt as well. He now owns a high-performance gym that a lot of pro athletes in L.A. go to during the off-season. He’s still very fit, with a boyish smile. “Hi, Everly. Good to see you.”
“How are the boys?” I ask them.
They have three boys, now teenagers, all playing hockey. They’re going to be another dynasty, like my family.
“Busy.” Honey rolls her eyes. “All I do is drive them around. We’ve been talking to the folks at Boston College. Erik’s going there next year.”
“Ah.” I nod. “I’m sure he was in high demand by a bunch of colleges.”
Honey’s pride is evident, although her words are modest. “Yes, but we try to keep his feet on the ground. Or the ice. Ha.”
I grin. “Are your parents here?”
“Yes! They’re actually right there with your mom and dad.”
I glance over and Mom beams a smile at me as they move toward us. “You’ve done an amazing job, sweetie,” Mom says to me. “This is beautiful!”
“You’d never know we’re in the arena,” Dad adds, looking around.
“I didn’t do the work,” I tell them. “I have a great team.”
It was a huge endeavor, to cover the ice and transform the arena into an intimate, glamourous setting for a dinner, not to mention set up the stations for the chefs who are cooking here tonight. Various businesses have sponsored tables, which are each decorat
ed with a theme. They’re all unique and all stunning, from tall flower arrangements and gleaming glass and silver, to a replica Stanley Cup table in all silver, to a Roaring Twenties theme.
A photographer stops in front of us, and Mom, Dad, and I smile for a few pictures. I’ve done this a million times, so I’m experienced at it, but I’ll never like having my picture taken. Then the photographer moves on, and we step apart. I watch Condors’ defenseman Derek Jablonski precariously balance a tray full of martinis as he makes his way toward us. I smile as I accept a drink. “Good job,” I tell him.
“This is harder than it looks,” he says. “I’m sweating like a hooker in church.”
A laugh bursts from my lips. “Oh no.”
He grins. “I can handle it.”
“Where’s your buddy Wyatt?”
“He said he’d be here. He said he’d be a bit late, though.”
I swallow my sigh. “Yes, he did.” Dinner hasn’t even started, so I guess I can’t be too upset.
I have a few other things to attend to, so my martini and I head toward one of the cooking stations where they were having some electrical problems. Fortunately, this has been solved. I thank the chef for being here and apologize for the delays, and he’s gracious about it, thankfully. Some of these chefs are total divas.
At a few minutes past seven, our emcee for the evening, comedian Rick Radman, gets up to announce dinner is starting and request everyone take their seat. He makes a few other housekeeping announcements and a couple of jokes that get people laughing. I move to the table I’m sitting at with Dan, a couple of city councillors and their wives, and the assistant GM of the team, Scott Jermy, and his wife. We tried to spread around people who work for the team, like Mom and Dad; Dave; Barry, director of hockey operations; and assistant coach Stanislav Petrov, so various guests sit with people from the organization.
Still no sign of Wyatt.
I roll my eyes. We’ll manage fine without him. I don’t know why I’m so irritated by him not showing up.
Our table is being served by goalie Arvid Bergström and Nick Romano. As they’re serving a starter—veal tartare crostino—I slide into my chair next to Dan. I flip my napkin onto my lap and smile at him. “How are you doing?”
“Great. Amazing event. As usual.” He leans over and kisses my cheek.
I pick up one of the appetizers and take a bite. Delicious, although I am far from hungry. My stomach is tight with nerves. What I really need is more wine.
That’s when I see Wyatt. He’s scowling at us, standing there looking gorgeous in his tux.
I blow out a short breath. “Excuse me for a minute.”
Dan gives me an exasperated look, like he wants me to sit and enjoy the food. I push my chair back and stalk over to Wyatt. “Thanks for coming,” I say with a sarcastic edge to my voice.
“I got here as fast as I could.” He sets his jaw.
“You’re working with Jimmy and Derek,” I tell him, pointing to the table the two men are serving. “Go see Amy, she has an apron for you and she’ll get you set up.”
He’s annoyed. I don’t know why. Maybe he doesn’t like being told what to do by a woman. Too bad. I don’t have time for that shit.
I head back to my seat. “Sorry, Dan. One of the players just arrived, late.”
“No worries. There’s always something, isn’t there?”
“So true.” I shake my head.
I try not to follow Wyatt with my eyes as he crosses the room. It’s a struggle, though, because I want to watch him. He’s flashing that bad boy grin around as he ties on an apron, listening to Amy with his head bent and nodding. Seems it’s just me he’s ornery with. Then he picks up a tray of food.
I smile and manage small talk as we eat amazing food. I do have to excuse myself again, when Amy comes by with another small problem I need to attend to. I take care of things and return to my seat for dessert.
After dinner, Rick Radman entertains with a witty stand-up routine and then we mingle and enter the silent auctions. There are amazing items being auctioned off, thanks to generous donors, including a luxury spa getaway, diamond jewelry, and hot air balloon rides.
I do my duty. I’ve been schmoozing with people my whole life, since Mom and Dad love to entertain and frequently had all kinds of people over for dinner parties. I could hold a conversation with hockey players, coaches, businessmen, and movie stars by the time I was twelve. Which is pretty much what I’m doing now as I move from group to group.
Now that dinner is over, the players have ditched their aprons and are mingling as well, posing for pictures with fans and signing autographs. Wyatt appears to be popular with the guests. This isn’t a surprise to me; since he arrived here last season, he’d quickly become a fan favorite. The ladies love him for his good looks, ripped physique, and wicked smile; the men love him for his bro charm. And everyone loves him for his hockey skills—his willingness to play hard, make hits, and sacrifice himself for the team. And the odd time he lets go a blistering shot from the point that hits the back of the net.
Right now he’s surrounded by women, beautiful women all hanging on his every word, edging closer and closer. He appears to be enjoying himself, making them laugh and flip their hair back.
He looks up and catches me watching him, and one corner of his mouth lifts into a smirk.
Jerk.
Heat washes through me in a sudden memory of rolling around on his bed, his tongue down my throat and his hands all over me. Oh God.
My knees wobble and I determinedly turn away from him to smile at Dan.
The prizes are being drawn with much excitement. My feet are killing me in four-inch heels so I find a seat in a shadowy corner and check my phone as if I have important organizing stuff to do.
Someone sits next to me. I glance up and see Wyatt. My belly somersaults and my heart misses a beat.
“I apologize for being late,” he says formally, which is weird for him. “I got here as quickly as I could. Traffic was nuts.”
I nod, keeping my expression cool. “It’s fine. Thank you for making the effort.”
“I wasn’t trying to be an asshole,” he says. “I really thought no one would miss me if I didn’t make it.”
“Judging from all the women crowded around you the last little while, that seems remarkably wide of the mark.”
His lips twitch. “Aw. You were jealous.”
I roll my eyes. “I most certainly was not.”
Then I feel it. Or hear it. The faint buzzing in my ears. I close my eyes. Maybe it’s just because of the noise in here—music, Rick Radman blasting over the microphone the names of the silent auction winners, laughter, chatter…that’s all it is.
“What’s wrong?”
I open my eyes to see Wyatt focused on me with a notch between his eyebrows.
“Nothing.” I force a smile. “Just tired. It’s been a long day. Actually, it’s been a long few months getting ready for this.”
“I’m sure it takes a lot of work.”
“Yes. It’s our biggest fundraiser.”
One corner of his mouth flicks up. “So I’ve heard.”
I pull in a slow breath, filling my belly in the way I’ve learned, and let it out in the same measured way.
“Do you need something?” He frowns. “Do you want me to get your, uh, date?”
“No.” I know he means Dan, and he’s not really my date, but I’m too distracted to explain it.
“Do you need to go home?”
“Can’t.” I breathe again. “Too much to do.”
That’s a lie. They don’t need me here to oversee the teardown. The arena staff are experienced at stuff like this, turning the playing surface from a hockey rink to a basketball court, or a concert venue, in a matter of hours.
In reality, leaving sounds great
to me. As the ringing in my ears intensifies, a telltale dizziness makes my head spin briefly. Shit. I don’t just want to leave. I have to leave.
“I’m not feeling well.” I rise abruptly, clutching my phone. “I need to go home.”
He blinks at my terse words and stands too. “Are you driving?”
“No. I arranged a car service. I need to call them.”
“I’ll drive you home.” He cups a hand around my elbow, barely touching me, and yet it feels steadying.
“No.” I don’t want to be with him when I’m like this. “That’s okay.”
“Don’t be stubborn, princess.” His voice is low and calm. “Do you have a coat somewhere?”
“My office.” My head whirls again, this time putting me off balance. My steps falter.
“Did you drink too much?” His tone is mildly amused as he leads me off the ice surface, down the tunnel to the elevator that goes to the offices of the Condors and the Condors Foundation.
“No! I mean, I did have a few drinks, but that was over the whole evening. I’m not drunk.”
“If you say so.”
He doesn’t believe me. But that’s okay. I’d rather he think I’m drunk. Of course, he might get the idea I have a slight alcohol problem since I seem to be wasted every time I see him. Ugh.
I lean against the elevator wall, trying to appear normal even though the buzzing in my ears is louder, I’m dizzy, and it’s starting to make my stomach turn over. Christ.
We don’t say much as I use my security card to unlock the offices and collect my coat. I have my little evening bag with me, over my shoulder. The offices are silent, the halls empty, unlike the brisk atmosphere that usually fills them during the day.
Wyatt takes my coat and helps me into it like a perfect gentleman, even lifting the ends of my hair out from the collar. “Thank you,” I manage.
We take the elevator, this time to the underground parking where the players have spots. He leads me to his SUV and helps me in.
I close my eyes and try to relax into the seat as he starts the engine and drives out of the parking garage. I focus on breathing, but I know that won’t do any good. I’m just going to have to wait this out.
Win Big Page 5