Page 3 of Tripped Up (Austin Aces Hockey Club #1)

three

Elsy

Joey gives me a good deal on the car, and Wyatt talks him into a maintenance deal at minimal cost, so now I don’t even have to think about getting regular checkups done. My wallet screams as I sign on the dotted line, but the fact remains, I need a car to get around out here. There’s no bus route that will get me across town to the rehearsal space and back to the symphony for performances without major headaches.

Wyatt lingers even after I’ve finished signing the paperwork. Joey sticks a big red bow on the hood of the car and Wyatt snaps a few pictures on my phone so I can send them to Bex and Vanessa.

Now I have to go back to my apartment and unpack my seventy million boxes. Joy.

“D’you want to grab a drink?” Wyatt asks.

My eyebrows jump up. “Excuse me?”

He clears his throat, his face pink from being in the sun all afternoon. “A few of the guys are getting together. Super low-key.”

Eyes narrowing, I try to figure out what his end game is.

“If you want to go home to your empty apartment, be my guest,” he says. “But I thought you might like some socializing with someone other than me.”

I sigh. I would. I don’t want to be alone. Even being around him is better than being by myself right now.

“Fine. Text me the address.”

He nods, pulling out his phone and sending me the location details. My phone buzzes in my purse. O’Malley’s Pub is only a few minutes’ drive from my apartment. Joey already set up the Bluetooth, so I can punch a button on the screen and pull up the map.

As I slide into the car, my dress rides up, and I hurriedly pull at the hem before my lacy bike shorts are visible. The last thing I want is Wyatt seeing them—or worse, asking why I need to wear shorts under every dress and skirt.

Because my thighs rub together when I walk. Chub rub is no joke.

The bar is warm and welcoming. Instant hockey dude-bro vibes, but not in a bad way. It reminds me of the pubs in Boston and the dive bar I frequented in college. Old world sense of style, punctuated by signed hockey jerseys on the wall. Everything is decked out in navy blue and gold—the Austin Aces colors.

Because my best friend plays in the NHL, I keep tabs on what’s going on in the league. I’m not a big fan of hockey, but I am a big fan of Mitch, so I try to show an interest in his career. Just like he’s not actually invested in whatever piece I’m rehearsing, yet he shows interest because he cares about me.

Wyatt lingers in the pub’s entrance. Almost like he’s… waiting for me? But that can’t be true; he’d never be so considerate as that. “The guys are over there,” he says, nodding to the corner. Like I wouldn’t recognize a group of tall, wide, and gorgeous hockey players. Come on. It’s not like they’re Clark Kent; everyone can see they’re superheroes in hockey jerseys, even in their street-clothes disguises.

“Hey, man,” one of them says, nodding to Wyatt. “Didn’t think you’d show up.”

Wyatt grunts like a caveman. If he wants to make friends with his teammates, he’ll have to try harder. “Had things to do.”

A hockey player with a wiry build looks me over. No way he’s of legal drinking age. “Who’s the chick?”

My eyes narrow. “Excuse me?”

Wyatt’s hearty laugh makes my stomach turn. “This is Elsy. She’s my kid sister’s friend and just moved to town.” He raises his brows. “That’s Riley. Try not to eviscerate him. He’s only a rookie.”

“Welcome to Austin,” says a guy with dark hair and a beard. “I’m Samson.” He’s wearing a wedding band and looks relatively normal.

“Nice to meet you.”

“Cian O’Leary,” says the man with collar-length hair, a neat beard, and green eyes.

And of course, I recognize Jack Vignier. Viggy is one of the older guys in the league—broadly built, dark hair, dark scruff. The kind of guy I’d like to take me home and do terrible things to my body.

Alas, he works out with Mitch in the offseason, so he’s thoroughly off-limits. My best friend would kill me.

“Hey, Viggy.” I give him an upward nod and get a rare hint of a smile from him in return.

This gets me raised eyebrows from the rest of the group.

“What’s the story here?” Cian says, glancing between us, then back to Wyatt.

“Her friend is in the league,” Wyatt says. “She’s a groupie.”

“Fuck off. I’m not a groupie.” I roll my eyes. “My best friend is Nick Mitchell. He’s with New Orleans.”

“So what are you doing here with us, then?” Samson asks.

I shrug. “My job brought me here. I have a life outside of him.”

Viggy snorts. “Does he know that?”

“Sometimes he forgets.” I smile sweetly, even as I glare daggers at Wyatt. “It just means I have to remind him. Repeatedly.”

The rest of the guys look around, evidently confused. I’m upending their dynamic.

“Now, as much as I love hockey players, and by love I mean tolerate,” I continue. “Who do I have to talk to in order to get a drink around here?”

A waitress approaches at that moment. A worn plastic name tag proclaims her name to be Tina. She has the haggard look in her eye of someone on a double shift from hell. Light pop music plays from the restaurant’s speakers, the volume low enough to render the lyrics indistinct. The scent of fried food lingers heavily in the air, making my stomach rumble.

“You want a drink?” Tina sets down three trays of wings in the center of the table.

“Yes, please. Tito’s and Sprite. Thank you.”

She gives me a tired smile. A little politeness goes a long way. “You got it. Any food?”

Even though I’m starving, my stomach twists at the idea of eating in front of all these guys. Strangers. Men.

“Oh, I’m fine. Thanks.”

Wyatt, sitting across the table from me, raises his eyebrows. “You haven’t eaten anything all day.”

Who the hell does he think he is, chiding me like a child? I scowl at him, my lip curling petulantly.

“Get her a cheeseburger with fries and a side of barbecue sauce,” he tells the waitress. “No tomatoes or ketchup, everything else on it is fine. Thank you.”

Crossing my arms over my chest, I glare daggers at him. “Fuck off, Wyatt.”

He rolls his eyes. “I don’t want my sister to yell at me because I let you waste away.”

Viggy pushes the basket of wings closer. “He’s right. And Mitch would kill us.”

“You’re the worst,” I mutter as I take one. I don’t even like wings. They’re too much work for not enough reward. If I’m going to suck on a bone until it’s clean, I want it to be worth it.

The waitress brings me my drink and I give her a supportive smile. I’ve done my fair share of shifts bartending and cater waitering. It’s how I put myself through grad school.

The guys talk around me, but I don’t feel ignored. They’re about to start training camp next week, while I’m about to start rehearsals.

It’s the start of something new. I almost want to break into song, but life isn’t High School Musical , and even if it were, I can’t sing. Despite a voice practicum being a requirement for my degree, I’m a talented musician… who can’t sing.

After a few minutes, my cheeseburger arrives, and I dig in. I didn’t realize how hungry I was until Wyatt pointed it out. Which sours my appetite, sure. I won’t let him hold me back, though.

I’ve been there, done that. Nobody can hold me down. Not for long.

* * *

My stomach churns as I walk into the rehearsal space. First days are as exciting as they are nausea inducing.

The Austin Symphony wants me. They reviewed my application materials and flew me out for an audition. They hired me.

Now I have to prove they didn’t make an enormous mistake.

Lawrence, the musical director, is a sprightly man in his early seventies with a full head of frizzy white hair that practically screams eccentric musician . He was one of my professors at Stanford and my first mentor. When he moved to Austin a few years ago, he tried to recruit me, but I was happy in my position. Now that I need a fresh start, he was my first call.

The symphony salary isn’t enough to pay all my bills, but once I supplement it with a few private music lessons, I should be comfortable enough. I just have to go out and meet people.

My least favorite thing to do.

Lawrence introduces me to Hilary, who gives me a quick tour of the facility and a rundown of the season.

Today’s rehearsal is for the first fall performance. It’ll take a lot of work to get up to speed on their repertoire, but I’m confident I can handle it. This is what I’ve been studying and training my whole life to do.

Anastasia O’Connor is the first chair violinist. She’ll be my primary competition for solos; I was the first chair back in Boston, and I won’t let myself stay stagnant in the number two chair for very long. We met briefly during my audition, and as I walk into the rehearsal studio, she gives me a tight-lipped smile.

“You made it,” she says. I can’t tell if she’s talking about the job here or my arrival today. “There’s a kerfuffle in the brass section.”

“Oh?” I always like to be informed. It’s not gossip if it impacts the job… or so I rationalize.

“I’m not exactly sure what’s going on,” she admits. “Something about a tuba player being asked to leave.”

“I’ll keep my ears open.”

She nods, passing over today’s music. The sheets are hole-punched already, so I can stick it into my three-ring notebook. I’m familiar with the first piece we’re doing, but not the second or the third.

“Are you settled in?”

“Mostly. There’s so much to unpack. You’d think moving would get easier the more I do it.” I shake my head with a resigned sigh. I have so much to do.

Staying out with Wyatt and his teammates was definitely the wrong call. They kept refilling my drink until I had too much to drive. Wyatt drove me home, and when I woke up this morning, ready to call an Uber back to the pub, my car was magically in my parking space in the apartment’s garage. One of his teammates probably took care of it. They seem like decent guys—for being hockey players, which isn’t saying much.

Lawrence begins rehearsal with a quick pep talk before launching into the day’s itinerary. I catch a few people sending me confused looks, no doubt wondering who I am. With an eighty-member orchestra, there are a lot of musicians who come and go. They rarely come in as second chair, though.

As we wrap up, I notice Anastasia is quick to put her violin away.

“Do you want to grab coffee?” I ask, tempering my hopeful tone. I don’t want to scare her off. We may compete for performance time, but we still have to work together.

She makes a face, and I can’t decide if she’s annoyed or disappointed. She’s hard to read, but I’m determined to win her over. “Can’t today. Got some things to do.”

“Oh. Okay. Not a problem.”

Guess I’ll go back to my apartment and keep unpacking.

“I can do dinner after my errands, though,” she says. Internally, I do a little dance. She’s not brushing me off. Maybe she will be my friend and more than a colleague, after all. “Does that work?”

“Perfect.” Am I coming on too eager?

She tells me the name and address, then gives me a tight smile. “See you later.”

I’m on my way out the door when Hilary from the office staff catches me.

“Hey, Elsy,” she calls, and I backtrack a few steps. “I forgot to tell you about the gala.”

“Oh?”

Most symphonies will host two or three galas a year. They’re formal affairs with an elaborate dinner, silent auctions, dancing, and speeches. There are limited performances with small ensembles throughout the evening rather than the full orchestra, so we get to mingle with patrons and politely ask them to empty their wallets, all while wearing fancy gowns and tuxedos.

“Should I mark you down for a plus-one?” Hilary asks.

My stomach twists. I used to go to these types of things alone, so Stephen and I could sneak off to a quiet alcove whenever we could make the time for a few frantic moments. All those storage-closet hookups made our forbidden romance all the more exciting, but when we actually had a moment alone together with our clothes on, all the excitement fizzled away.

I won’t be making that mistake twice.

Opening my mouth to turn her down, I’m surprised when instead, I tell her, “Sure.”

She doesn’t blink, merely makes a note on her tablet. “Great. I’ll get everything set up for you. Welcome to Austin.”