Page 20 of At First Smile

CHAPTER TEN

Suck it Up Buttercup

Rowan

F uck! Fuck! Fuck! I grip the steering wheel harder, my knuckles pale, as my Jeep inches along in the snarled L.A.

traffic. Teeth clenched, I bristle with the need to get as far away from LAX as possible.

I’d let out a hard breath after jumping onto the first shuttle that appeared, but my tense muscles still ache despite leaving the paparazzi curbside.

It was a trick Eli Silverberg, team captain, taught me.

Unlike Silverberg, with his famous former boyband star husband, I’m not accustomed to this level of attention.

Other than the occasional random reporter at events I attend, most of the media around me happens at the rink before and after games or is relegated to the talking heads on sports shows.

Since I’d infamously punched Landon, there’s been an uptick in my ‘appeal’ to the press.

Especially since it happened in Toronto, minutes after they’d beat us in game seven of the Stanley Cup Finals.

While Toronto is more a hockey town than L.A.

, it also considers me and Landon hometown boys.

I’d gone to university there, while Landon grew up in Bedford Park, a suburb of the city and played at the same university, but at different times.

Only unlike me, he’d lasted two years at university before he’d gone pro seven years ago.

The media circus after I’d left the arena that night was nothing like I’d ever experienced.

It's why I escaped to my house outside Hamilton. It’s why I chose to drive to Buffalo to fly back to L.A.

instead of flying out of Pearson Airport.

It’s been almost two weeks since I punched Landon and the NHL Commissioner announced my five-game suspension to begin at the start of next season.

I thought the incident would simmer down, but this…

Pen. The sensation of holding Pen, her muscles coiled tight, still pulses in my arms. Arms that crave to fold around her. To soothe away the gentle quake that rolled along her limbs thanks to the chaos at baggage claim.

“What have you done?” I glare at myself in the rearview mirror.

As traffic finally thins, I ease down the freeway. I could head home to the judgement-free embrace of GB, my two-year-old boxer. His goofy face is always a comfort. But do I deserve to sink into comfort right now?

No.

I could go to Axel’s. Wes is, no doubt, perched behind the bar. I can hear his sarcastic, “Are you just going to sit at my bar and brood all night?” On second thought, the popular West Hollywood pub may not be ideal right now.

The unshed tears glistening in Pen’s wide eyes as she stared at me haunts my vision. I can’t sulk. I can’t seek comfort. I need to protect her. From this. From me. Hitting the turn signal, I cross the lanes and head towards the nearest exit.

Forty-five minutes later, I steer the Jeep down a tree-lined street in Sherman Oaks.

I brake in front of a one-story house with a charming white picket fence wrapped around the manicured front yard.

The house is like something out of a sitcom with its blue shutters, attached double-car garage, and a large bay window that overlooks the front yard.

A swing sways from a large maple tree in the front yard.

I hurry up the shrub-lined red brick walkway to the front door. Before I can bring my hand to the turquoise door, it swings open and a tiny body hurls into me.

“Uncle Rowan!”

I scoop up the little human and swing him in a big hug. “Damon.”

The seven-year-old is the perfect blend of his parents. His black curls are all his mother but his hazel eyes, with the mischievous glint that’s almost always present, are one hundred percent his father.

“He’s not your uncle,” Greg drawls, appearing in the large foyer. “He’s my bonehead client.”

“Bonehead?” I arch an eyebrow.

He gestures at his son. “Little ears.”

“Mom told dad that if he doesn’t stop saying bad words, she’s going to invite grandma to stay with us for the summer,” Damon whispers.

“Which grandma?” I whisper back, enjoying the annoyed expression on Greg’s face.

“Grandma Lawson.” The kid’s huge smile emphasizes his apple cheeks.

Laughter belts out of me at the pained look on Greg’s face.

My no-nonsense agent cowers only for two people, his mother and wife.

Having met Mrs. Lawson at Sasha and Greg’s wedding I understand the fear.

The barely five-foot tall southern lady ensured I ate all my vegetables that night and some of hers.

With Sasha, Greg is more a lovesick man who pretends to be exasperated but is powerless to do anything but make her happy.

A sharp ache pulses in my chest at the memory of Pen’s watery eyes at baggage claim. Setting Damon on his feet on the hardwood floor, I scrub a hand down my face. “Can we talk?”

“Let’s go to my study.” Greg tips his head to his son. “Buddy, let mom know Rowan is here.”

His little face turns up to me. “ Oh , if dad wants me to get mom, then you are in trouble.”

“He sure is,” Greg snarks, spinning his wheelchair and motioning for me to follow.

Greg leads me down a long hall towards the back of the house.

His guidance is unnecessary. I know this path, having walked it many times since he and Sasha bought the house six years ago.

Not all of Greg’s clients are invited into his inner sanctum.

Somehow over the last decade, I’ve become one of the select few he’s invited in.

Though that may have been more Sasha’s doing.

Before being traded to the Bobcats three years ago, Sasha had me over for homecooked meals each time whatever team I was with played in the L.A. area.

Since moving to L.A., I’m here a few times a month.

The only other house beside my condo that I have more meals at is Coach Carlson’s.

He has team members over regularly for BBQs and invites those without families for the holidays.

It’s the first time in ten years I’ve had a regular semblance of family and home.

I follow Greg into his study. The pre-sunset light streams into the room from the double patio doors that lead out into the large back garden.

“Grab a seat.” He motions to the two rich chocolate-colored wingback leather chairs opposite of his oversized dark oak desk.

I check out the office as he wheels behind the imposing desk.

Matching bookshelves filled with leather-bound classics, athletes’ memoirs, legal texts, and an entire row stocked with children’s books for Damon.

While Greg’s agency office in downtown L.A.

is decorated with framed photos of the sports world’s biggest names – team owners, players, and reporters – this space is littered with pictures of Damon and Sasha.

“I figured you’d be coming here. Sasha has been fielding calls from reporters all morning.”

“How the fuck did they know I was going to be at LAX?” I growl and plop onto one of the chairs.

“Watch your tone in my house.” He wags a thick finger. “Also, what the hell are you talking about? Who was at LAX?”

“Reporters ambushed us at baggage claim. I assumed that’s why you thought I was coming.” I yank off my hat and rake my fingers into my hair.

“No. I thought you were here because Landon was announced as the NHL Man of the Year this morning.”

“Is it true Landon is pressing charges?” I lean over, placing my elbows on my knees.

It’s the first time the idea that I might face real consequences, beyond a possible trade, my five-game suspension, and impact on my reputation – what reputation – for punching Landon.

I still don’t regret what I did, but just picturing my mother and Finn’s expressions and Gillian’s “Not surprised, bro” causes a lump to form in my throat.

“Nah.” He waves a dismissive hand. “I spoke to Landon’s executive team this morning. Also, he gave this whole speech about forgiveness, moving on, and hopes it sets a good example about sportsman-like behavior. The media fucking ate it up.”

“Prick,” I mutter under my breath.

“Well, that prick’s giving you a lifeline.”

A furrow notches my forehead.

“When I spoke with his team this morning, they tossed out the idea of you participating in this charity event he’s hosting next month.”

“No fucking way.”

“That’s twice—” he raises two fingers. “One more time and I’ll not only kick you out but have my mother come stay with you . If anyone can teach you some manners, it would be her.”

“Sorry.”

Greg arches a dark eyebrow. “Seriously, what is it between you and this guy? Did he bang Emma or something? Is that why you broke up with her?”

“No,” I mutter.

The breakup with Emma had nothing to do with Landon.

It had everything to do with us being two entirely different people with very different wants.

I wanted an actual relationship. Like the kind my parents had before Dad died.

For the briefest moment, I’d imagined we could have had that, but I was wrong.

“I know you don’t like the guy, but suck it up, buttercup. He’s the league’s darling right now. Lucky for you that golden boy isn’t holding you marring his camera-ready face with a blackeye against you…and all he wants in return is for you to participate in the bachelor auction for his foundation.”

“Seriously?” I groan.

“It’s in Toronto, your home-ish town. This charity provides funds to low-income families to have their kids participate in youth athletics. It’s right up your alley.”

A snarl builds in my throat. “Is that all he wants?”

“And maybe for you to do a PSA with him about violence not being the answer.”

“Greg.” The way I grumble his name is akin to me saying, “Fuck off.”