Page 5 of Home for the Hockey-Days (Cedar Rapids Raccoons)

CHAPTER 5

August

I fucking hate parties.

Especially fancy-as-fuck Christmas parties.

I survived the ugly sweater party Mom dragged me to at the neighbor’s house, but this? Penguin suits?

I also fucking hate tuxedos.

Who the fuck are these rich kids who thought it was a good idea to have a party, invite the whole team, and make us dress up in glad rags I don’t even own? Couldn’t they do something more meaningful with their money? Something less... lavish?

I’m grateful to them for paying Rowan for my tutoring. But this... this level of opulence, of grandeur... of waste .

I bet as soon as I walk into the fanciest hotel in Cedar Rapids, everyone is going to know this tux is borrowed from my cousin. I’ll stick out like a sore thumb, a giant sore fucking thumb at that.

These de la Pe?a kids have more money than sense. It grinds my fucking gears. Has no one in their lives taught them about the value of a dollar? About how some people barely make ends meet? Ugh. The entitlement .

I haven’t known them all that long, since the college hockey season started in October. They seem like nice guys, from the little time I’ve spent with them, and I know life isn't fair, that just because someone was born into money doesn't make them raging assholes, but it all feels a bit… in-your-face flashy.

They’re paying for my tutor, which is far from a dickish thing to do, so I need to give them some grace and tuck my own hang-ups about the wealthy aside. And as captain, I can’t not show up to their holiday party for the team, even if I’d rather stay in my dorm room, eat ramen noodles, watch porn, and pass out in my underwear.

I do look hot as fuck though. I can carry off a tux with the best of them. I’m lucky that my one and only cousin who has made something of himself is an inch taller than I am and owns a penguin suit.

These hotshot sons of a billionaire have even comped hotel rooms for each member of the team for the night. Not shared rooms, either. We get a room of our own. I half expected matching jammies like we got at Halloween, or group activities in the morning. Or even matching smoothie makers for everyone on the team. But I guess that’s a step too far for the Princes of Prosperity.

Fuck.

I heave out a sigh. I know I’m being a petty bitch, I know I’m being judgmental and ungrateful and normally, I can keep myself to a mild snark.

It’s definitely worse than usual. I guess there’s something about being forced into needing help that’s rankling me.

I’m trying not to be bitter, to not resist participating in the group activity even if it stinks of Benjamins. It’s not their fault they were born into money and I wasn’t. And underneath all the dollar bills they’re actually decent guys, they really are. I need to focus on that more, it’s just hard when it’s almost brandished in my face at every turn.

If they weren’t good guys, they would never have offered to help me out of a tough spot by paying for my tutoring with Rowan. I mean, they could just stand by, stay quiet, and keep their money in their very deep pockets. They could let me lose my place on the team, and in university, and one of them could even take my ‘C,’ if they were the cut-throat, competitive, jackasses I’m making them out to be.

It’s just sometimes it’s hard to see past everything they have that I don’t.

Fine. All the damn time.

If they knew I was struggling as much as I have been, both financially and academically, they’d wave their money wands and make it go away. They didn’t hesitate to find Rowan for me, before I’d even opened my mouth to ask for help.

But I guess I’m just too fucking proud to ask for real help, or let them even if they tried. Taking that gift card from Artemis in Bitches Brew physically hurt my insides.

Coach wants me to work harder at strengthening my bond with all the guys on the team and stop being so much of a lone wolf. Some days I think he regrets giving me my “C,” because I don’t like people. I’m not a good leader. He says I’m wrong but I don’t see it. He says it’s his job to see things in us that we can’t.

And for some unknown reason, people tend to tell me personal shit like they think I can help them fix it. To be fair, sometimes I can. But that’s beside the point.

I don’t mind hanging out with my boys, but this... this is... extreme. It’s such an unnecessary fucking waste.

The hotel in downtown Cedar Rapids looks pretty fly under thousands of soft twinkly Christmas lights. A huge, black Christmas tree, adorned with silver and gold decorations, stands in the lobby, an electric toy train chugging around the tracks surrounding giant piles of beautifully wrapped empty boxes at its base.

“Are you here for the hockey team party?” A guy behind the desk asks with a warm smile.

Isn’t it obvious? Is there another penguin fancy dress party in the building? I’m glad he referred to it as the team party and not the de la Show Off’s party. I might have snapped.

“Yeah.” I tug at my collar. As soon as it is socially acceptable, I’m yanking off this stupid dickie bow.

He points to his right. “Take a left at the end of the hallway.”

I nod and follow the arrows to the grand ballroom. Inside, it’s much of the same, lots of sparkle, twinkling lights, glitz and glam, and I don’t get two feet into the room before a server passes with a tray of bite-sized... somethings.

Who the hell came up with the idea of eating miniature versions of anything? That’s not my jam. Give me the full sized option, and give me lots of it. Another server pauses with a tray of champagne flute glasses. She holds the tray out to me. “Apple cider?”

“No alcohol?”

She shakes her head. “It’s a dry party.”

Nice. My shoulders relax a bit. I might think they’re entitled, but I'm big enough to admit that I like that the twins haven’t tried to pay their way into getting alcohol served to underage kids here.

No one’s going to be swinging from the pretty chandeliers overhead, streaking through the hotel, or skinny dipping in the pool.

At least not because of booze at the party.

What they do outside this room is their own problem. Inside these four walls, I’m in Captain Mode. These assholes are my responsibility, all of them. And there’ll be no front-page drama on my watch .

I should have thought to give a hockey stick to the guy at the check in desk and have all the team sign it when they head to their hotel rooms like I do when we travel for away games. It was something the departing captain told me last year, a handy dandy trick to make sure everyone makes curfew.

You give a hockey stick to the receptionist and ask them to take the time when each of the players sign it. If they’re a hockey fan, they get to keep the stick. It can be a costly process, and it’s not always necessary. But when Coach enforces a curfew, or we have a big game coming up, it’s a sneakily easy way to make sure everyone gets to where they’re supposed to be without me standing guard over the whole team.

Win-win.

Sticking to the periphery of the room, I’m on my second glass of apple cider. I’ve had about a dozen hors d'oeuvres, and I’m still starving. These things aren’t real fucking food. They’re tasty, but they aren’t actual nourishment. My stomach says so.

Scanning the room, mostly in search for something I can actually sink my teeth into, my eyes land on someone I wasn’t expecting to see here, and I choke on the tiny puff of cheese pastry I just swallowed. Fuck. Thumping at my chest, I flag down a passing server to give me another flute of cider. She waits for me to drain it and take another before she hurries off.

Should have asked for a tall glass of water. Fuck.

Blurry eyes, burning throat, and flakes of pastry still stuck in my esophagus, I’ve never been more relieved than when the server appears with a giant glass of water. “Thanks,” I croak, but I can’t take my eyes off the vision, the ethereal, the fucking goddess standing right there in my line of sight.

Rowan.

Sipping my water, I take her in. Her hair hangs loose over her shoulders. She’s wearing a gold, sleeveless dress that flatters her tits and waist, falling to her mid-thigh in loose pleats. A wide black belt and strappy black sandals finish the look, and she holds a small black clutch against her side. I damn near swallow my tongue.

Holy fuck.

How am I going to be able to sit across a table from her to learn math?

Fair enough, if anyone’s going to convince my brain to absorb complex equations and math it’s going to be the most intelligent and beautiful woman in the room, right? Right. I just need to figure out how to stop staring and drooling over her because that shit’s not cool.

The person she’s talking to moves into view. It’s Athena de la Pe?a, oldest of the four de la Pe?a siblings, resident boss bitch, and scariest motherfucker on campus. She’s every bit as wealthy as her younger brothers, but much smarter. At least so the rumors go, I don’t know her at all.

They’re clearly good friends, from the relaxed posture, the warm smiles, and the fact it’s commonly known that Athena keeps her circle small.

My stomach falls.

Standing here looking in on my new tutor hanging out with a billionaire heiress, it’s hard to miss the subtle extravagance painted all over her body. How can I compete with that? What can I give her that she can’t just buy for herself?

Fuck.

The perfectly manicured nails, the expensive looking dress, I bet those shoes cost at least a grand. The vision standing in front of me is a contradiction to the scared woman who broke down crying in the parking lot a few days ago when she realized she had no insurance.

Which is the real Rowan?

Is she poor like me, but doing what she can to keep up with the de la Pe?as? Or was it all an act, and she was playing me like a fucking fool to gain my sympathy because turning on the water works might get her out of trouble? If that was the case, why would she need the de la Pe?a’s money for tutoring me?

It doesn’t make sense.

My gaze lingers on her feet. Visions of those sparkly black heels carving tracks into my ass cheeks as I relentlessly fuck her assault my mind. It almost distracts me from the fact her dress probably cost as much as a year’s worth of food. It almost distracts me from the fact I’m not good enough for her.

Almost.

I should have known better than to think she was just another struggling college kid like me.

“Flirting with the enemy?” Justin Ashe’s amused voice is too close. I didn’t see him approach, which is already unusual for me. When I damn near jump out of my skin, he chuckles. “That answers my question.”

My mouth is dry despite drinking my glass of water, so when I go to speak, nothing comes out. Clearing my throat, I breathe in and try again. “Enemy?”

“She’s Johnny White’s girl, man.”

The final nail is driven into Rowan Armistead’s coffin with gusto.

Privileged, above my station, and my mortal enemy’s girl. As if she can feel me staring at her, she skims the crowd before her eyes land on me, stopping my breath in its tracks. Her face breaks into a wide, beaming smile, but I school my features, barely tipping my head in acknowledgement of her existence.

Johnny White’s girl. Fuck my life. That’s drama I don’t need right now.

I honestly have no idea how our rivalry started back in high school. When it comes to JW, I don’t think there needs to be a reason, he was born an absolute asshole, he hates everyone, he thrives on making people miserable. He’s a jackass .

I’ve stood up to him since we were teenagers, and I think that added fuel to the fire. Most people back down and let him win. Not me.

At some point, the local fans started to hype our rivalry, often comparing our stats and performances. Then the local hockey blogs and sports reporter caught wind and jumped on the bandwagon, which led to JW throwing me shade on his socials, chirping shit at me in comments after games. And when the two of us are on the ice together, our subtle, virtual jabs are transferred into actual face-punching jabs.

The crowds love it. They probably think it’s staged, but when you peel back all the layers, Johnny White isn’t a nice guy, and he’s a dirty fucker on the ice.

If she’s with him, that says it all about her. I’ll use her for her math brain to help me keep my place on the team, but beyond that, I need to stay away from her. All I need is to give Johnny another reason to drop the mitts on the ice. I can’t help my team to victory if I spend all my time in the penalty box.

I turn my attention back to Justin, who watches the non-verbal exchange with thinly veiled curiosity. He looks like he’s about to say something, but seems to decide it’s best not to open his goddamn mouth.

Right choice.

I’m not known for fighting my own teammates, but right now, I’d be happy to make an exception.

I’m inexplicably pissed at myself. And at her. I don’t even know why. She doesn’t owe me any information about her life, we aren’t dating, she’s not cheating. Guess my imagination got the better of me, and I expected...

I don’t know what I expected.

It’s not like she was going to sit down and go, “Hi, I’m Rowan, I’m rich and in a relationship with your childhood enemy.” Of course she doesn’t know who I am. I’m no one. It makes sense. But it still stings just a little.

I thought she was different, or at least different enough. Different enough that being the poor kid wouldn’t matter for once.

Maybe I even thought I could be different.

Echoes of high school come back to me, the sneering laughter of Johnny White and his friends as they mocked my hand-me-down sneakers, hockey pads, and the same paper bag lunch every single day because it was all Mom could afford.

My stomach lurches.

Money can’t buy happiness, but it sure as hell makes life a shit-ton easier.

A sickening thought tickles the edges of my mind. What if Rowan does know who I am, and is fucking with me to sabotage any chance I have of getting to the NHL? I wouldn’t put it past Johnny to sink that low to recruit other people to his fucked-up plans.

Is she lacking moral scruples just like him? She’d have to be to date him, right?

I shake my head. No. He’s a master manipulator. There’s every chance he’s recruited her without her even realizing he’s a complete piece of shit. A bully at best.

A bell chimes, and we’re called to dinner.

“Sit with me, cap.” Justin tugs my arm. I’m pretty sure these tables are all set out with a very specific seating plan, but he doesn’t seem to give a shit. Basically the twins planned a wedding without a bride and groom. There are fresh poinsettias adorning the space, lights, coordinated linens, huge centerpieces blocking people who sit on one side of the table from talking to people sitting across from them unless they contort themselves around the vases.

It’s everything you’d expect from a... well, a wedding. I bet this little soiree of theirs cost them a fucking bomb. Or rather, cost daddy dearest.

Since my eyes landed on Rowan, I know where she is with every step she takes. I feel her questioning eyes roaming over my face. Why did I blow her off? Why, indeed. I’m not going to make eyes at that asshole’s girl. That’s a line into act-of-war territory that even I won’t cross.

I can’t believe she’s with Johnny fucking White. She seemed so damn nice... I suppose there’s no accounting for taste.

There are more women in the room than I expected. Guess I hadn’t thought about the guest list beyond the hockey team being invited.

The round tables each seat six. Scott takes a seat to my right, leaning toward me. “She’s off limits, cap. White’s girl.”

How am I the only fucker in the building not to know that she’s already with someone else? Not just anyone, but Johnny fucking White. My blood boils as his name tunnels further under my skin. And how the hell did Scott notice my attention on her? I need to stop staring. I’m clearly drawing attention, and it’s kind of rude.

She’s just so goddamn stunning, I can’t help myself.

Justin sits on my left. To Scott’s right, Athena takes a seat, and Rowan sits next to her.

Oh, for fuck’s sake. They had to sit right here? At my table?

Worse still, Athena moves the fucking centerpiece off to the side so we can all see each other.

A chick I’ve never seen before sits next to Justin. She’s wearing a dress so low cut I’m pretty sure Justin just jizzed his pants.

There’s an awkward atmosphere at the table, but according to these little fancy embossed place cards, everyone is exactly where they are supposed to be. Athena chats to Rowan, but her eyes stay firmly focused on my face as the meals appear in front of us. I have no idea what I eat. I can’t taste it. I do know that it’s definitely more filling than the bite-sized teases we were given on arrival.

I have no clue what the conversation around me is about either, I can’t hear it.

When I’m not staring at my plate, I’m sneaking glances at the fiery redhead sitting across the table trying to murder me with her death-glare. She’s clearly pissed that I ignored her and didn’t return her smile and greeting. At least I think that’s what she’s pissed at.

Good.

I’m pissed too. What good person, in their right mind, dates Johnny White?

Pissed means I won’t accidentally stick my tongue in her mouth and make her moan my name while her cum decorates my cock.

Easy, tiger.