When we arrive at the restaurant, I give them my name, as I’d made the reservation, and we’re led to a table right in the middle of the seating area. I feel the weight of stares as we walk, and I’d forgotten what it felt like to have notoriety. I’m becoming well known in Pittsburgh. Callum Derringer even told me that my jersey is currently the number one seller in their merchandising division, and my agent has been calling with endorsement offers trickling in.
It feels great—I can’t lie about that.
But the pressure is on for me to continue to perform at this level.
I know this is going to become commonplace… no privacy. I remember it well when I was with the Eagles.
Not so much with the Badgers. No one recognizes minor league players in their city, and I could roam about Cleveland without anyone doing a double take.
Except for puck bunnies.
They somehow were always at our team hangouts, serving themselves up like platters on a buffet table.
I’m seeing it here, too, when I go out after games with my teammates. I’ve gotten a few solicitations since coming to Pittsburgh. Beautiful women willing to spread their legs for the bragging rights that come with sleeping with a professional hockey player.
And I haven’t taken a single one up on an offer since moving here.
I’d like to say they were all wart-covered hags, but they weren’t. They were beautiful and sexy and promised a good time.
But I said no because of Harlow, and for no other reason.
Which is completely fucked up as I owe her no amount of monogamy, seeing as how we’re only friends.
Once we’re seated, we’re handed menus and a wine list, which I decline. We’re offered drinks, which I also decline, instead ordering water for us both. The first time we had dinner at a restaurant, Harlow made it clear she didn’t mind if I wanted an alcoholic drink, but I really didn’t. I’ve never had a drink because I savored the taste with a meal. When I drank, it was because I was with friends having a good time, seeking a buzz to heighten it.
None of that matters when I’m with Harlow.
Once the waiter leaves, I ask, “How was your day?”
“I was in court this morning.” She grimaces slightly. “Had to wear a suit and heels.”
I laugh. One of the things I love about Harlow is that she’s so casual and down-to-earth. She hates dressing up, and I love a woman who loves jeans and a comfy sweatshirt. It seems more real to me.
“When I got back to the office, I met with the parents of a seventeen-year-old kid who’s in trouble. And while I can’t share details about the kid’s case, I can tell you that the dad is a certifiable creeper. He hit on me right in front of his wife. I would have kicked him out, but the kid really needs help.”
Fury hits me that someone would dare hit on Harlow, which is ridiculous for me to feel because she is in no way mine to protect, but it’s apparently a very real emotion.
“Have you heard from your dad?” she asks, and I’m grateful for the change of subject so I can get out of my emotions where Harlow’s concerned.
I shake my head. “Not since I paid him the five hundred thousand.”
Prior to that, he’d kept calling and texting, waxing and waning between fury that I wouldn’t return his calls to begging me to give him attention. It was pathetic, and I couldn’t find any common ground with him. Since reading Brooks’s journals, the one place my anger has not abated has been with regard to my father. I don’t know if I can ever forgive the deliberate attempts he made to ruin my relationship with my brother.
More so, the deliberate decision he made to abandon me once I no longer served his purposes.
“I did talk to my mom the other day. Called her when I knew Dad would be at work.”
“And?” Harlow prompts hopefully.
Over the last few weeks, Harlow has learned more about our family dynamics that she didn’t know of through Brooks. She’s essentially learned my side of the story, including that my mom just doesn’t have the strength to be anything more than my father’s wife.
Harlow latched onto that. She’s hopeful that perhaps with Brooks’s passing, it might make my mom appreciate her remaining son more.
I’m not holding my breath.
And she shouldn’t either as I succinctly explain our conversation. “She basically lamented about my dad being upset about me getting Brooks’s estate. I tried to get her to another subject… tried to get her to tell me how she’s doing, and she just didn’t have anything to say. It was frustrating.”
“I’m sorry,” she says. Her tone is so soft, so pained on my behalf, something in my chest squeezes in response to her care.
“You say that a lot when I talk about my family.” I give her a pointed look that makes it clear she doesn’t need to apologize.
“It’s just not right,” she grumbles angrily.
“No, I suppose it’s not, but it is what it is.”
I know this is hard for Harlow to understand. She has very loving, attentive parents. They supported her when she didn’t want to work in the family firm. They never considered it a fall from grace but loved her even more for wanting to make her own way. They stood by her side when she admitted her alcoholism, and they’ve loved her without judgment or recrimination.
To try to understand that some parents just aren’t good like that has caused her a lot of distress.
“Excuse me,” someone says from my left, and I turn to find three women standing there, looking at me expectantly.
I take it all in, understanding exactly what this is, while I can see Harlow is curious but out of touch.
Three young women, all dressed up, hair and makeup perfect. “Can we get a picture with you?”
Normally, I don’t ever decline this request. More often than not, it’s from true fans, often children. But I recognize the look of these women, one in particular. The blond who wears her shirt cut just a little higher than the others and whose gaze is intensely direct.
“Actually…” I glance over at Harlow, feeling horribly uncomfortable.
“No, please,” Harlow says, sweeping her hand toward the women.
It’s genuine. She sees nothing but excited fans. I can even tell by her smile she thinks this is cute.
“Would you do the honors?” one of the women asks Harlow, handing over her iPhone.
“Sure,” Harlow says easily, rising from her chair.
There’s shuffling as I stand and the women crowd around me, the blond to my right. Normally, I’d loop my arms around their waists, not in a sexual way but just to pull my fans in and take a fun, smiling picture. Instead, I hold my arms out bent, a silent command for them to loop their arms through mine.
It’s not as intimate.
This works fine as we pose for pictures, everyone in the restaurant watching. The women do model poses with hands on hips, except for the blond. She turns to the side, removes her hand from the crook of my elbow, and places it on my lower back. I stiffen as she scoots in, pressing her body against me. I feel her heavy breasts against my arm, and it’s awkward to me now. In a different life, I never would’ve minded.
And then I feel her push something into my back pocket.
A million bucks it’s her phone number.
She fucking squeezes my ass before moving her hand up to my lower back again, and I try not to jolt. I don’t want to give her the satisfaction that she’s elicited any type of response, even if it’s one of annoyance.