Page 33

Thirty-Three

Aiden

Well, the second game of our home-and-home matchup against the Eagles didn’t go quite as well as night one.

The Eagles take this one, but we’ll play each other a total of eight times this season, so it’s not over yet.

We’ll get them next time.

Hopefully.

Because I know it’ll be a struggle to go more than five hundred with them. They’re a tough team, tenacious and focused and every game with them is a battle.

Doesn’t mean I’m going to give up, though.

Never give up, never surrender.

My mouth hitches up at the obscure movie line—one I wonder if Luns will remember, since we watched the film together as teenagers—and I toss my bag over my shoulder, head out of the locker room.

Time to go home to my woman—something that’s a hell of a lot more convenient when I merely have to drive home instead of getting on a bus and then a plane and then make the drive.

My phone buzzes the moment I hit the hall.

I pull it out, smile widening when I see it’s my tiny tornado.

LUNA: Tough loss tonight, big guy. But nice playing.

AIDEN: Did I do enough to earn hot cocoa?

LUNA: …

LUNA: Sure. But you might have some work to do before I bust out the whipped cream.

I laugh, start to pocket my phone, but it buzzes again.

LUNA: And unfortunately, I have to meet with the legal team tomorrow. My dad and brother are throwing up more roadblocks.

My amusement poofs away like so much smoke.

Damn.

AIDEN: I’m sorry, sweetheart. That sucks, and even though we expected it, that doesn’t make things easier.

LUNA: Yeah.

AIDEN: I’ll be home soon, but I can stop by The Dairy, bring you a pint of that cinnamon swirl ice cream you like?

LUNA: I don’t think I’m in the mood for ice cream. But I could use one of your hugs.

AIDEN: Consider it done.

I shove my phone away, start down the hall, but when I turn into the corridor that leads to the players’ parking lot I’m waylaid by a billionaire.

Or in actuality, I nearly plow one down.

“Sorry,” I say to Jean-Michel Dubois as he snags my shoulder and steadies me.

“All good, Aiden.” His expression fills with humor. “Or should I say, A-man?”

I roll my eyes. “Yeah, I definitely got the short end of the stick on the nickname front. But there’s no helping it. Hockey locker rooms do as hockey locker rooms do.”

He grins, claps me on the arm. “That’s true enough.” He starts to step by me then pauses. “Nice game tonight—though I am glad we shut you down.”

“There’s always next time.”

A quirk of his mouth. “Also, true enough.” He nods, starts to walks off.

I do the same.

Then remember who I’ve been talking to— who I’ve been talking to. Jean-Michel Dubois—billionaire with a soft spot for women, who does charity work, and who has a really good, a really fucking good legal team.

“Hey, uh, Jean-Michel?” I ask as I spin back around.

He’s been pulled into another conversation, but my question has him stopping, looking up. “Yeah, Aiden?”

“I’m sorry to interrupt, I just…do you think I could set up a time to talk with you”—my eyes slant to the man he was speaking to and I try to find the right words because I don’t want Luna’s business casually tossed through the arena’s hallways—“it’s not about hockey, but it’s…uh…complicated.”

Blue eyes lock on mine, studying me like he can see the depths of my soul.

And it doesn’t take long before I’m one second away from spilling my guts about everything from the time I stole a candy bar at the grocery store to the unholy dreams I had about Luna during my teenage years to the fact that one of his own players on the Eagles, Hudson, showed me the filthy move that earned me that killer goal in the last game.

Before any of that slips out, he glances over at the man he’d been speaking to. “I’ll catch up with you in a few minutes, yeah?”

The man just nods then disappears without another look.

“Does this require privacy?” Jean-Michel says quietly.

I consider that, but he spots the answer—affirmative—before I verbalize it, inclining his head and turning away, leaving me no choice but to follow him around the corner and through a series of hallways before stopping outside a closed door.

He turns the handle, pushes it open, and holds it so I can follow him inside.

Then he leans back against the desk inside the office. “All right, kid. My spidey senses are telling me this is both really good and really bad, and…is also likely to create a fuck-ton more work for me.”

I wince.

Because that pretty much sums it up.

But then because I’m critically aware of how busy this man is—and how much more he makes than me per hour, per minute, per second , how every moment I’m standing here like a dumbass is a waste of all of those resources.

So, I pull my head together.

And I start talking.

And pretty soon, I tell him everything.

And pretty soon…I know I made the right decision.

Because I’ve found an ally.

And he happens to be one of the biggest and most powerful men in the world.

Take that, Smythe.