Page 12 of Famous Last Words (New York Thunder #1)

CHAPTER 12

FRAN

I stand back against the wall, watching Robbie start toward me. And holy shit. The man can wear a suit like nobody’s business. I find myself unable to look away. Dressed in a navy two piece that fits him like a glove, there’s a serious swagger to his strides, and it’s almost as if he’s in slow motion.

Pushing his damp hair out of his eyes, Robbie lifts his chin at me, offering that cocky smirk as he comes closer. And come on. I’m not a complete ignoramus; I know the man is attractive. In that conceited way that’s obnoxious and a complete turnoff. Absolutely not my type, but I can see how he has his fangirls in a chokehold.

“Hey, baby ,” Robbie murmurs, his voice low and raspy, doing that thing to me again. The thing I refuse to acknowledge because if I pretend it’s not happening, then it is not happening.

He wraps an arm around me, pulling me close, and my body goes rigid at his touch. I hold a hand against his unsurprisingly rock-hard chest in a way that I hope comes across as a tender, loving touch when, in actual fact, it’s me holding him at bay becaus e if he gets any closer, I might very well punch him in the dick and risk blowing our cover.

“Who’s your friend?” Robbie lifts his chin at Hannah, and I don’t miss the spark of interest flare in his dark eyes. Men are so obvious, it’s embarrassing.

Before I can respond, Robbie extends his hand to Hannah. “Robbie Mason. Hero of the night.”

I almost laugh out loud when Hannah glances at me, one of her eyebrows arching slightly higher. I can tell she’s biting back a guffaw as she shakes his proffered hand. “Hannah Draper. Daughter of your coach.”

My gaze flits to Robbie just in time to see his face paling, Adam’s apple bobbing with a hard swallow. “Um, oh. H-hey—” He squares his shoulders. “N-nice to meet you.”

I’m forced to contain my smirk, pressing my lips together, because Robbie Mason bumbling all over himself is hilarious.

“You played a good game,” Hannah says.

Before Robbie can collect himself enough to respond, we’re interrupted by a tall drink of water who looks as if he stepped straight off the cover of the latest GQ , dressed in a Gucci monogram suit that hugs him in all the right places and on anyone else would look utterly ridiculous, fashionable scruff shadowing his jaw, golden brown hair damp and tousled to perfection. Is being unfairly attractive an ice hockey prerequisite or what?

“Yo, Han, how’s your bod, baby?” the man says by way of greeting, an obvious southern accent laced through his words.

Hannah looks at me and scoffs, rolling her eyes before craning her neck to spear the man with a bored glance. “Dallas, don’t you have a bevy of desperate bunnies to go chase?”

The man, Dallas , snickers, and like a walking, talking cliché proceeds to place a worn Stetson on his head. And I can’t stop staring at him. Who knew I had cowboy kink? When his green eyes land on me, I actually feel my knees weaken.

“And who do we have here?” Without waiting for an introd uction, Dallas steps forward, holding his hand out. “Dallas Shaw, voted hottest goalie in the league, two years in a row.”

Hannah shakes her head, muttering something under her breath. And I can’t help but smile. I really like her. It was by sheer chance I ran into her outside the bathroom during the second period. We immediately hit it off, and thank God, too, because she helped make tonight a little more tolerable.

Pointing his finger between us, Robbie finally speaks. “Dallas Shaw, Fran Keller.” His eyes meet mine as he continues, “My girlfriend.”

With a nervous smile, I accept Dallas’s hand, but instead of shaking it like a normal person, he bows his head and presses a kiss to the back of my fingers, lips lingering far longer than socially acceptable.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you. Robbie’s told me absolutely nothing about you, and I can see why.” His gaze is almost lewd as it sweeps over me from head to toe, but in a weird way it’s not creepy like it probably should be. I can tell this guy is nothing more than a harmless flirt, and it’s kind of endearing.

“How’d you enjoy the game, Fran?” Dallas asks.

“It was good…” I trail off, glancing at Robbie. “Is it normal for you to be pinned against the boards that much, though?”

Robbie’s face becomes serious.

Hannah hides a smile behind her hand.

Dallas laughs so loud he attracts the attention of everyone around us. Smacking Robbie’s shoulder, his laughter subsides long enough to say, “Shots fired, son.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Robbie mutters, rolling his eyes, although there’s a smile hinting at his lips, and I have no idea what’s so funny, but whatever.

“Robbie, man, you sure you don’t wanna come for a drink with the guys? I’m sure Hannah can convince dear ol’ daddy to let you off the hook for one night.” Dallas nudges Hannah who, in return, glares up at him in disgust.

“Girlfriends are welcome too, Franny,” Dallas adds, winking at me, and I swear I almost giggle.

Robbie snakes his arm around me again, pulling me impossibly close. “Nah, man. Like I said—” he glances down at me, lifting one of his eyebrows conspiratorially, “—romantic night in with my girl.”

I swear to God, I almost laugh. In fact, I have to turn away because, between the look in his eyes and the pathetic smile on his lips, it’s too much. Who’s even buying this?

“Aw, you two are so adorable together,” Hannah whispers, nudging me with her elbow.

All I can do is smile despite my gritted teeth, inwardly groaning at the feel of Robbie’s hand resting far too low on my hip and squeezing me, as if he knows just how much it’s pissing me off.

The second we get into Andy’s Porsche SUV, I slap Robbie around the back of his head. Not hard, just hard enough.

“What the hell was that for?” He rubs the back of his head, glaring at me over his shoulder.

I spear him with a dagger glare. “For touching my ass, you perv!”

“Robbie!” Andy chides.

“I was just trying to make it look believable.” Robbie shrugs, laughing under his breath as Andy clears the parking garage boom gate, pulling out into the Midtown traffic. Thankfully, the windows are tinted enough so that the Thunder fans lining the sidewalk outside the Garden probably can’t see in, but I still shield my face as best as I can, just in case.

The plan was to leave together, and Andy will drop Robbie off at the hotel he’s staying at until escrow closes on his apartment, then drop me at my apartment before continuing to his home in Park Slope. And as Andy and Robbie are busy discus sing the game, all I can do is doom scroll social media, finding countless pictures of me from tonight, wearing Robbie Mason’s jersey. I’ve gone viral and for all the wrong reasons. I feel sick to my stomach.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

Startled by Robbie’s outburst, I look up just as Andy is slowing down to a stop at the curb outside the hotel on West 44th, where a throng of people appear to be crowding the entrance.

“What’s going on?” I ask, watching as the people in the crowd turn to take in the car, many of whom are men holding cameras with huge lenses. Suddenly, I’m blinded by a barrage of flashes, and all I can do is cover my face with my hand.

“It must be the no press clause,” Andy mutters cryptically, tapping something into his phone.

I look at Robbie for answers.

“I’m not allowed to talk to the press,” he explains with a sigh, staring out the window as the flashes continue. “Which is ridiculous. Of course, they wanna talk to me… I won the fucking game,” he scoffs.

My heart races as I chew on the inside of my cheek. “So, what do we do now?”

Andy heaves a sigh. “Fran, would you mind going up?”

My brows knit together because surely I heard him wrong. “What?”

“I know I said I’d drop you off after Robbie, but it’s going to look like some sort of PR stunt if he goes in and you come with me—” he shrugs a shoulder, offering me an apologetic look. “I’ll have a car here the second the coast is clear.”

My jaw drops as I glance out at the sea of photographers and journalists waiting impatiently on the sidewalk. There’re even some eager fans in the mix. “What if they don’t leave?”

Robbie turns around in his seat then, a devilish smirk tugging on his lips. “Slumber party, baby.”

“I’d rather jump off the roof,” I snap back.

“Just head on up,” Andy interjects. “I’ll sort it out.”

My shoulders sag on an exhale. I do believe Andy when he says he’ll sort it out, but going up to Robbie’s hotel room with him was so not part of the deal.

With a muttered curse, I grab my bag and my jacket, unfastening my seatbelt right as the passenger door is yanked open with gusto, the silence in the car inundated by too many people trying to talk at once.

“Robbie, over here!”

“Robbie, what did Lance Draper say to you after the game?”

“Robbie, how does it feel to score the winning goal?”

Robbie stands with his back to the reporters, waiting for me with an annoyed look on his face like I’m taking too long. Fuck him. My gaze dips to his hand held out for me, and reluctantly I take it, holding on to it tightly.

I’m careful as I step out of the SUV, ignoring the cameras and their bright flashes as best as I can, keeping my face void of emotion despite wanting to cower beneath the weight of the unwanted attention, the stares, the raised voices. It’s all too much. I choose to focus on the ground, allowing Robbie to lead me through the throng. And I can tell he’s done this before, ignoring the camera lenses and microphones that are being thrust in his face like a seasoned pro, all the while holding my hand firmly behind him, keeping me close.

By the time we make it inside the safety of the lobby, ushered in by hotel staff, I allow myself to finally breathe.

Sweat pricks the back of my neck. My face is hot, heart hammering against my ribs, knees trembling. I’m on autopilot, staring blankly at Robbie’s back as we continue through the sleek lobby and into a waiting elevator. It isn’t until the doors glide closed that I realize I’m still holding his hand. But as I look down to where our fingers are intertwined, I notice Robbie’s holding mine just as tight. As if he’s noticed too, he quickly pulls away.

“Ew,” I mutter, folding my arms across my chest with a huff .

“You have dead people hands,” he murmurs, pulling his phone from his pocket and proceeding to ignore me by focusing intently on the screen.

When I catch a glimpse of what he’s looking at on his phone—highlights of the game he literally just played—I can’t help but wonder if he could be more obsessed with himself.

I roll my eyes, staring up at the counter as it ticks slowly with every level we pass on our incline, considering whether or not I should press the button to get off at the next floor. Walking down fifty-two flights of stairs sounds a lot less excruciating than being stuck in a hotel room with an asshat.