But what was bad in public was terrible in private.
Magnolia Mallory met me in the tunnels, sneaking me through the journalists’ entrance with a coy smirk and stolen Sports Nation ID.
She brought the coffee. I supplied the donuts. And the rest of the reporters radiated the existential dread.
“What’s the word?” Magnolia asked as we slipped into the stands behind a row of cameras poised to record everything except the player drills.
I suppressed a yawn. “I just got off a plane—three-day trip. All I’ve heard is what your station has broadcasted…and it hasn’t been kind.”
I kicked off my heels and scrunched my toes. Anything that wasn’t a jump seat in the back of a crowded 747 felt like Heaven—even a chilly arena with plastic seats at the crack of dawn.
Magnolia didn’t attempt to defend her network. “I can’t stop the stories, and it makes this job impossible. I’m supposed to be building relationships with these men. I can’t do that if I’m reporting all their vices to the world.”
“Then don’t.”
She wielded her iPad like a third arm, tapping through a few notes while she watched the practice. “Not that easy. This is a competitive field—especially for someone who isn’t a perky blonde puck bunny. Think the network wouldn’t love to have a woman with different…looks in front of the camera?”
I doubted they’d be that stupid. Magnolia redefined elegance. Ball gowns and tiaras were so outdated. The woman rocked dress suits and sandals, natural curls and an iPad with a bedazzled case. Maybe she wasn’t blonde, but the peppermint pink dress wrapped her ebony curves with the blush of grace.
No way she was worried about losing her cushy job with the network.
So I wondered what the real reason could be.
“Who is he?” I asked.
Magnolia wasn’t above using her stylus as a weapon. She threatened me with the blunt end.
“There is no he,” she said.
I followed her gaze to the lone veteran on the bench, wrapping his stick with a layer of tape as he surveyed his younger teammates. Everett Thorn was the oldest on the team. He hadn’t aged like a fine wine…more like a hard bourbon, something that burned harsh and fiery on the way down.
“He’s very handsome.” I teased her with a smirk.
“Thorn is an old friend,” she said.
“That so?”
She wiggled her ring finger, brandishing the diamond ring so that it’d twinkle in the light. “He’s my fiancé’s oldest friend.”
Well, that was less fun. “And who is your groom-to-be?”
“Johnny Bastion. Starting center for the Cherrywood Bandits.”
“Uh-oh. Our division rivals?”
“Makes it fun,” she said. “When the Forge held their draft, the Bandits had to decide between Johnny and Thorn. Figured they could get a few more years out of Johnny, so Thorn had to go.”
“That’s gotta be tough.”
“They’d been teammates for ten years. Grew up together and came into the league at the same time. Cherrywood loved their bromance—made for some great ratings and behind-the-scenes shots. And it was important to them, you know? They competed against each other, played harder, had someone to watch their back.”
“Doesn’t seem fair.”
Magnolia nodded. “The league isn’t fair. Each player’s gotta find his edge wherever he can.” She sighed as Thorn silently joined the rest of the team’s drills. “He should’ve retired already, but he fought us on it. Too many hits, not enough rest. But Thorn insisted on taking the contract. I figure someone’s gotta keep an eye on the big lug. The job keeps me from Johnny, but we thought it’d be…better if Thorn had someone watching him.”
“That’s very sweet.”
“Nothing’s more important than friends,” she said. “We’ll do fine here. I’m sure of it.”
“Providing the team doesn’t self-destruct before the season begins.”
“They’re only a collection of the league’s biggest bullies, troublemakers, crybabies, and arrogant cocksuckers.” Magnolia’s smile almost made the profanity seem a compliment. “What could go wrong?”
“Everything.”
Her interested hum could make the mundane sound juicy. “Oh? Insider information from Captain Alaric?”
“My lips are sealed.”
“Right.” Magnolia returned to her notes. “I’m sure those lips have better things to do than gossip.”
I feigned a coy shrug as a surge of acidic dread flooded my gut.
Adrian hadn’t answered my calls or texts for three days.
And I hadn’t spoken to him since the night of our fight.
If I had known that the most amazing and overwhelming sex of my life would’ve created this terrible rift between us…
Who was I kidding?
We both would’ve still surrendered to each other in that moment.
Adrian had warned me about his desires, but I hadn’t experienced a true conquering until that night.
He’d been wild, pushing me down, slamming into me again and again, releasing his every last frustration deep into my core. He was rough and demanding. Harsh and dominating.
I’d needed it.
He’d wanted it.
But now that we’d lost ourselves in the oblivion of our darkest fantasies, we had to talk.
And I knew what had to be said—the truth that had slunk around within my mind for years, hidden and defiant.
I’d always loved Adrian.
And he must’ve known it. I was the last person to realize my feelings, but the question wasn’t when I’d fallen in love with him…
But…what if it was too late to save that love from our own fear?
The only way to protect whatever relationship remained was to acknowledge what we hid from ourselves and each other. And whether confronting that truth was the best decision of our lives or the worst mistake we’d ever make, we couldn’t live in this stagnant uncertainty forever.
No matter how good the sex.
Or how easily we denied our feelings.
Or if I never got pregnant.
If we wanted to survive this, we had to fix what was broken. And we could. That was the ultimate frustration. We trusted each other. We knew each other. We could so easily undo the last couple months of doubt and pain if we simply relied on each other, just like we’d always done.
The world might’ve promised a silver lining to every problem, but Adrian was the only man who ever delivered me gold.
It was time to admit our feelings.
Especially because Adrian needed me more than ever.
Magnolia scribbled notes while the players lined up for drills. The coaches blew whistles, the trainers offered bottles of water, and half of the men ignored the other half while they finished their own warm-ups and initial laps around the rink.
The Forge had collected twenty-three ridiculously talented men, but teamwork required more than simple fundamentals. Each gifted athlete could pass, shoot, and display some fancy stickwork, but individual skill did not make for a functioning organization.
The media buzzed around us, and a crisp twenty-dollar bill slapped into a grinning journalist’s hand.
The reporter kissed his money and stuffed in into a striped polo shirt pocket, greasy from the spilled innards of a breakfast sandwich likely consumed in his car.