Page 10 of Famous Last Words (New York Thunder #1)
CHAPTER 10
FRAN
I ’ve only ever been to Madison Square Garden once, to see One Direction when I was fourteen. And that was understandably chaotic because, I mean, hello , it was One Direction.
You expect mayhem with a bunch of hysterical teenagers swooning over the biggest boy band in the world, but I certainly wasn’t expecting the same scene to be occurring outside the Garden for some silly little hockey game.
It’s legitimate chaos. I’m pushed and shoved by eager fans, shouted at by a group of frat-looking guys trying to get me to join in in some sort of war cry. It’s almost too much. I’m only thankful that once I pass through the overzealous throng crowding the main gates and show my pass to an official looking man that I spot Andy.
“Hey, you made it.” Andy tucks his phone in his pocket, his gaze doing a sweep of me.
“Hey.” With a reluctant smile, I remove my jacket, suddenly feeling very self-conscious with MASON splayed across my back like a damn billboard.
Obviously picking up on my trepidation, Andy places his hand at the small of my back and leads me through a cordoned off doorway, and together we follow a long corridor before coming to the end where a woman wearing a pant suit greets us with a no-bullshit smile. She nods at Andy before scanning the barcode on my pass, directing us through another door.
“This way.” Andy points, and we continue down a hallway until we come to a set of doors that barely contains the commotion coming from the other side.
Andy pulls open one side of the double doors, and I’m immediately taken aback as the expanse of the MSG arena comes into view. The sounds, the smells, the dizzying view of what looks like a million people. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it definitely wasn’t this.
“We’re just down this way.” Andy points down the steps before leading me about half way down the aisle, just a few rows behind the bench where I assume the players will sit.
“Hoffman!” A voice booms.
“Hi, Bob.” Andy shakes an older man’s hand. “How’s the wife?”
“Still alive.” The man smirks, surprising me with his words.
Andy laughs hollowly, and I can only assume—and hope—the man was joking.
The older man glances at me then, arching a bushy white brow. “And who do we have here?”
Andy places his hand on my shoulder. “Bob, this is Fran. Robbie Mason’s… girlfriend.”
Thankfully, I’m the only one who seems to notice the pause.
The man, Bob , stands then, holding a hand out for me. “Well, welcome to the New York Thunder, Fran. I’m Bob Oakley.”
I shake the man’s proffered hand, smiling up at him.
“We’re real excited for your boy to join us,” Bob says with a smirk. “You just make sure you keep him in line for us, won’t ya?”
I smile tightly .
“First time at a game, Fran?”
I nod, my eyes scanning the overwhelming sight. “Yes.”
“It’s a sell out.” Bob chuckles, indicating the crowd. “People love a comeback story.”
I don’t know if I like this man or not, but I assume he’s someone important, so I maintain the saccharine smile that makes my cheeks ache.
“Bob.” Andy nods, taking my elbow and leading me further along the row to our designated seats.
“That was Bob Oakley,” Andy murmurs as we take our seats. “He owns the franchise.”
I glance back at the older man who, on closer inspection, is sitting rather close to a woman at least half his age, her pert breasts pressed inappropriately against his arm as he leans in, whispering something in her ear that causes her to throw her head back and laugh.
“Let me guess, that’s his granddaughter ?” I say drolly.
Andy chuckles, biting back his smirk. And as he goes back to his phone, I look around, taking it all in. It’s an eye-opener, that’s for sure. People decked out in fan gear, excited children cheering and holding signs with what I presume to be the names of their idols written on them. The refreshing chill in the air, the slightly nauseating scent of hot dogs and popcorn, the distant sound of music being lost to the consistent roar of the crowd. It’s like nothing I’ve ever experienced before. The energy is electric; I can feel it vibrating up through the cement floor and all the way through to my bones and, for the first time in a long time, I actually feel like I’m living in the moment instead of just existing in it.
Suddenly, I feel my phone vibrate from my purse. Pulling it out, I’m confused by the name glaring back at me from the screen.
Tadd: I want to see you .
I roll my eyes. He must be drunk.
Me: No.
Tadd: We’re good together.
I almost laugh.
Me: No, we aren’t.
Tadd: I miss you.
Despite the fact that Tadd and I haven’t been a thing for more than six months, these sorts of messages aren’t uncommon. But they usually come much later in the evening. When he’s drunk and more than likely lucked out with the ladies in whatever bar or nightclub he’s in.
Me: What do you want, Tadd?
Tadd: Meet me for dinner.
Okay, now he’s just annoying me.
Me: I’m busy.
Tadd: Doing what?
Me: Absolutely none of your business.
Tadd: Where are you?
Oh my God, he cannot be serious.
Tadd: Who are you with?
Tadd: Are you with whoever sent you the roses?
Suddenly the lights go dim and I snap my head up, startled by an obvious shift in the energy that sweeps through the arena, an ear-splitting roar causing me to flinch. I tuck my phone back into my purse without bothering to respond to Tadd. He’s drunk. And clearly delusional.
“What’s going on?” I ask Andy, my gaze flitting about, searching for the source of the excitement.
“Game time.” Andy flashes me an excited grin, jutting his chin in the direction of the rink.
I follow his gaze as bright lights and lasers start to dart about the crowd, the ice illuminating, glowing like a beacon as the opening chords of AC/DC’s “Thunderstruck” start cranking throughout, bringing the crowd to their feet.
Andy stands, and I look around to see that I’m currently one of the only able-bodied people still seated. Reluctantly, I make my way to my feet, almost jumping out of my skin the moment every person in the place starts punching the air and chanting in unison to the song. “Thunder!”
It’s a little terrifying, if I’m honest. Like some sort of deranged cult. But I’d be lying if I said it doesn’t get my heart racing.
Andy nudges me, and I glance at him to find him laughing, probably at me because no doubt I look entirely out of place standing like a stick in the mud with my arms folded across my chest. He nudges me again, and I roll my eyes, relenting and jabbing my fist into the air with everyone else, finding myself smiling as I do, which is when the arena erupts, cheering as a succession of hulking ice hockey players start skating out onto the ice, eliciting pure mayhem from the crowd.
It’s an entire production. The lasers. The song. The hysteria. And I now realize I was wrong; a One Direction concert has nothing on an NHL game .
My gaze lands on the last player to hit the ice—number nine—the player who causes the crowd to lose their ever-loving shit.
Robbie breaks away from his teammates and does a slow yet determined lap of the rink, seemingly in the zone. If it weren’t for his last name emblazoned across his back, I wouldn’t even know it’s him. He looks taller than normal thanks to the added inches of the skates, imposing with all that extra padding and more than a little intimidating.
As he continues his lap, chewing on his mouthguard, he waves up into the crowd, but then he comes to such a sudden stop on his skates it causes shards of ice to spray up into the air, only adding to the theatrics. And it’s then I realize exactly what he’s doing.
My stomach drops, eyes widening when they meet his. No.
As if he can read my thoughts, Robbie grins around his mouthguard, flashing that trademark cocky smile, dimples and all. Yes .
Tipping his chin in my direction, he lifts his stick, points it at his chest—his goddamn heart—before aiming it directly at me with a wink.
When I see my face suddenly projected on the Jumbotron, a part of me dies. Sinking into my chair, my cheeks flame with embarrassment as the excitement of the crowd ricochets around the arena.
I glare down at Robbie, shaking my head when he offers me a devious smirk, chuckling to himself as he skates off to join the rest of his teammates in preparation for the national anthem. Asshole.