Seemed like it violated some sort of important relationship commandment.
Thou shalt not compare thy best male friend to the sleezy men frequenting the layover hotel’s bar.
Seemed just as important as thou shalt not contemplate fornication with thy best friend and the immutable thou shalt not bear the fruit of thy best friend’s loins.
But it was better to break rules than hearts, right?
Adrian guided me through the first stop on the tour—a glance into several restaurants that would never see any patrons. Our city wasn’t a sushi or tapas sort of town. Most of the Forge’s fans would line up outside the smallest of the arena’s shops, the one serving the classic Ironfield sandwich—a monstrosity of a meal piled high with pastrami, cheese, coleslaw, and French fries, all tucked inside two slices of soft Italian bread. It wasn’t neat. It wasn’t pretty. And the guys behind the counter would be damned before they cut it in two, even for a lady.
But I’d flown from Ironfield to Istanbul, Iceland to Italy, and I’d never found a greasier, heartier, or more challenging sandwich. Good thing the arena had the sandwich to pull people in. Wasn’t sure the Forge could do it by themselves.
Adrian tugged on my arm, sneaking me through a cordoned off area to overlook the rink itself.
I hitched a breath. “That’s a lot of seats…and not nearly that many hockey fans in Ironfield.”
“Yet,” Adrian promised, overlooking the multicolored sections. “Not many fans yet. But we’ll change that.”
“So…” My fingers curled over the edge of the bright blue chairs. “Do I get season tickets?”
Adrian pointed across the twenty thousand seats. “Look over there…count five rows up.”
“Yeah?”
“You get the box above that row.”
“You got me a box?” My squeal echoed over the empty section.
“Well…technically…you’ll be sharing it with nineteen other friends and family members of the team.”
No more nacho-cheese-stained jeans, beer-splattered hoodies, and drunken men offering me a corndog for my phone number? Sounded like a boxed seat in Heaven.
“I never got good seats when you were in Atwood,” I said.
“Those tickets were harder to come by…” He stared out over the ice. “These…were a little too easy.”
“Give it time, Captain. You’ll be selling out arenas again.”
“Ironfield is a tough city to please. They’ll expect a lot from us.”
“No more than what you’ll demand from the team.”
“We’ll see.”
Adrian went quiet as he led me through a hastily constructed corridor—plastic sheets protecting the area from dust, scaffolding under the unfinished lights. The door to the player’s locker room and lounge had nothing to distinguish it from a regular supply closet save for the new murals painted on the cement walls.
I posed for a quick picture with Adrian’s painted portrait, modeled with his stick raised to take a shot.
Adrian rolled his eyes. “Are you done?”
“Just needed a selfie. You do look cute in acrylics.”
He pointed toward the door to the players’ suite. “This is the main show. Can I trust you’ll put the camera away before you admire the showers?”
“Oh, it won’t be the showers I’m admiring.”
“And that is why I never gave you a tour of the Marauders’ locker room.” He ran a hand over the unpainted door. “Though this one is more impressive.”
He wasn’t lying.
The players were given a suite for their own personal entertainment, a lounge which branched off toward the lockers, showers, weight rooms, and rink. Adrian led me to a sitting room stocked with leather chairs, a coffee bar, and an entire wall of refrigerated cases full of waters, Gatorades, and soft drinks. Two oversized televisions hung on the walls—complete with an X-Box and Playstation.
“Make yourself at home,” Adrian said. “The player’s lounge is relatively nudity-free.”
And yet, the echo of the showers promised more excitement than the pop station blasting from the radio.
I hesitated by the door, whispering before I entered. “Should I be in here?”
“No.”
“Forbidden tours…” I beelined for the puffy couch. “Finally, some perks for knowing the captain.”
“Don’t get used to it. You’re only here because it’s still the off-season. And no one shows up for the workouts.”
I didn’t like his tone. “Are they supposed to be?”
“It’s not required…but attending gives us an idea of who is putting in the extra work.”
“How many are here?” I asked.
Adrian ran a hand through his hair. “Ten.”
“…Of twenty-three?”
“Mm hmm.”
“Oh.”
It probably didn’t mean anything.
Hell, Adrian had only just arrived to Ironfield. The other players were probably in the same state of utter chaos as they upended their lives and moved cross-country. The unofficial workouts weren’t indicative of the team’s enthusiasm.
It’d all work out once training camp started.
It had to.
I glanced over the suite. “Catered food?”
Adrian hardly paid it any attention. “Three square meals.”
The men had it all, including a stocked pantry and kitchen loaded with breakfast cereals, milk, juices, and three steaming catering dishes brimming with eggs, bacon, and sausage.
“Guess I didn’t need to bring you breakfast,” I said.
Adrian tucked into his burrito. “I like a change of pace sometimes.”
He was such a bad liar. “You hate changes to your routine.”
“Breakfast isn’t a routine.”
I’d only been delivering him the same breakfast for ten years. I recited the order from memory again.
“Low carb tortilla, four eggs, heavy on the cheese, double vegetables, with ham, not bacon.”
He swallowed a big bite. “Am I that predictable?”
“Know what might just spice your life up?”
“Let me guess…” He dabbed his tortilla with hot sauce. “A baby.”
“I was going to suggest oatmeal with blueberries, but your idea is much more intriguing.”
Adrian passed me a bottle of water from one of the cases. “So, you little minx, should I take you right here, right now…or should I shove you in a cold shower and come at you later?”
He wasn’t scaring me. “You make wanting a baby sound so dirty.”
“You did research how to make one, right?”
“What’s the big deal?” I checked over his shoulder. The door to the weight and conditioning rooms remained closed, despite the rancorous laughter from a few players and trainers hitting the iron. For the moment, we were alone. “Do you remember junior year, when I learned how to tie a cherry’s stem into a knot with my tongue?”
“When you choked in the middle of the cafeteria?”
“And you gave me the Heimlich. The whole school was talking about it. You not only saved my life—you also got to second base.”