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“Word has come down that Connor Kipper’s father passed away during the game. I think it would show good sportsmanship and empathy if we, as a team, met the Comets at their hotel to pass along our condolences before Connor leaves for Quebec,” Bean informed us. “I know they’re our rivals, but this goes beyond the game tonight. Also, Jacques King was a legend in Canadian hockey and is due that respect. So please meet us at the hotel by the lake in an hour. The team is picking up the tab for the after game eats for the Comets as a means of showing our sympathy at the loss of a great player. I’d like to see you both there.”
Bean’s gaze sat squarely on me. Amazing how my dislike of Marcus had spread through the team without me ever saying one word about the jerk. Was I really that transparent?
“Yeah, of course,” Liam replied. I nodded. Bean, seemingly happy with our replies, moved on to speak to Greck and Fossie over by the showers. “Maybe Coach will let us skip morning skate if we’re at the hotel late.”
“Maybe,” I murmured, reaching down to start working on the ties holding my pads to my skates. Having to spend more time with Marcus was not a stop on my happy Zen space train to mental clarity. It was fine. We’d show up, pass along our condolences to Connor before he flew home, and leave. If I were lucky, I’d not have to lay eyes on Newley.
***
Nope, not that lucky.
Obviously, I should have read my horoscope before I got out of bed today. I could have opted to stay under the covers. But here I was standing with Greck and Liam, Henri and Criswell, Greck and Bean’s boyfriends, as well as Pastor Gabe. The good pastor was speaking with Connor over in a corner of a hastily set-up conference room packed with hockey players trying to be respectful and solemn. Which we could be. Even Greck was subdued. Sadly, everywhere I looked, my eyes found Marcus, and he would always—always—feel me looking at him and would hold up his glass of bubbly as a response. What a dick.
I’d had enough. Not wanting to be that guy, I slipped out of the conference room to use the bathroom, then found a bank of elevators. Since I’d been here for enough fundraisers, I knew there was an outdoor bar on the top floor of the hotel, and that was my goal. Just to find a table way above Newley and watch the boats bobbing on their moors. I could hide out there, have a soda, and then come back down and leave.
The doors opened, I stepped in and was about to punch the glowing R for “rooftop” when someone jumped into the lift with me.
“Are you kidding me?” I asked as Marcus stepped into the elevator, looking as superior as ever. “Are you following me?”
“Get over yourself. I’m going up to my room. Winning tonight wore me out.”
The doors slid shut. I wanted to punch him in the throat, but I shoved my hands into my front pockets instead. I should win an award for my restraint. “What are you doing?”
“I’m going to the rooftop bar to get away from pompous, bigheaded dicks with comets on their chests.”
He opened his mouth to reply when the elevator thudded to a stop. The lights flickered on and off a few times. Then the emergency generator must have kicked on because the small area was bright again. We both waited, tersely, for the lift to start rising, but it didn’t.
I began pushing buttons, to no avail. He nudged me aside to pick up the emergency phone and make a call to whoever the line went to.
“Okay, yes, okay, yes, of course.” He hung up, blew out a long breath, and glanced my way. “There seems to be something wrong with the elevator. They have someone on the way. Should be no longer than three or four hours.”
“Fuck,” I groaned.
Yep, tomorrow I was for sure checking my horoscope before I left my home. No. To hell with that. I was checking before I left my bed.
Chapter Four
Marcus
So this was awesome.
Not.
I knew I should have taken the stairs or at the very least waited for another elevator when I had seen who was inside, but no. I had to be a moron who was feeling his oats after beating the man in the dressy jacket, slacks, but no tie. The jacket was a little wrinkled.
“Don’t own an iron?” I casually asked.
“I came here from the barn to offer condolences to your teammate. Sorry, I didn’t have time to press the jacket hanging in the back of my car.” Ouch. Also, ouch again. “Nothing to say about that, huh?”
This was going to hurt. “Thank you for coming,” I ground out, my sight locked on the red floor buttons that were going nowhere. “I’m sure Connor appreciates the show of support from his fellows.”
“At least he has manners,” Baskoro mumbled to my right. Suddenly, and for good reason, I did not want to engage. I’d been all sorts of ready to give it to Huda when I’d leapt into the elevator. Now I merely wanted to get to my room. This whole dynamic between us was exhausting. “At least Connor doesn’t make snarky racist comments to people on the sly.”
That one yanked my attention from the floor numbers to the angry man sharing this too small space with me. Whatever he used for a cologne was earthy with undertones of pine. It smelled a lot like I would imagine an elf smelling. Yep, Baskoro Huda smelled like Legolas. Something that should be a plus because I freaking loved LOTR, but right now that woodsy aroma was overpowering.
“I’m not sure what the hell you’re talking about, Huda, but I never make racist comments. I will, on occasion, comment about what an asshole someone is, but that is always based on personality and not skin color.”
Was this damn elevator repair person ever coming? I punched the third floor button angrily, to no avail.
