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“Of course. Bennett’s a great guy. His number will hang from the rafters here one day.”
Nico understood the rare honor, based on the scant number of banners hanging up. Then the horn sounded and the crowd clapped as the players skated off the ice. Was it halftime?
His confusion must’ve shown, because Easton leaned over. “That’s the first period. We still have two more to go. I have to make a phone call, but I’ll return shortly. Do either of you need anything?”
“No, thank you.”
After Easton left the box, Nico checked his watch. Filippo disappeared to check on the deliveries they expected tonight. Now alone, Nico found himself pulling out his phone and searching Bennett Verreault’s name on the internet, a childish impulse he’d resisted before now. There hadn’t been a need to obsess.
Now he couldn’t help himself.
Images appeared, both professional and candid shots. Then link after link of websites and news articles. Advertising campaigns. There were Instagram fan accounts dedicated to Verreault, even one strictly for his game-day outfits, but none from the man himself. Nico wasn’t all that surprised. As someone who moved through the world as a ghost, he could understand the need for privacy. And Verreault’s career certainly hadn’t suffered from the lack of PR from what he could see.
A link from a gossip site caught Nico’s attention.
Reign Captain Bennett Verreault and Girlfriend Stroll Through Montréal
Nico clicked on the link. The page took forever to load and then he was staring at Verreault and a young blonde eating crêpes together, followed by another shot of them walking together and holding hands, their smiles wide and eyes shining with affection. Lauren Savard. She looked nice. Wholesome and innocent. Acqua e sapone. Water and soap, as Italians said for such a fresh-faced person.
Nico kept reading, his brain soaking in this new information, filing it away under what he already knew, amassing more layers of the complicated hockey player who believed himself worthy of only sad sexual encounters. The girlfriend was a teacher, a childhood sweetheart from Verreault’s hometown. Was Verreault bisexual? The possibility had occurred to Nico—after all, he was bisexual and he also wasn’t stupid—but if so, then Verreault was cheating on this poor woman.
Interesting. Nico wasn’t a cheater—he saw the damage his father’s affairs had caused—and he hadn’t pegged Verreault as one, either. The man had blushed the other night, for fuck’s sake. The reaction had been so genuine, so earnest, and not the practiced slickness of a man who told lies out of both sides of his mouth.
No, he couldn’t see Verreault as a cheating piece of shit. He was the golden boy. Perfect life, perfect girl. Perfect hockey star. Nico studied the photos once more, lingering. So tempting, all this perfection. It gave Nico ideas—selfish, inappropriate ideas.
This was not about him, however. This was about Sofia. His cousin, who’d been found by strangers on a sidewalk, drugged out of her own mind. And Nico would see vengeance exacted on whoever was responsible for her pain.
He closed the gossip site. That was a waste of his time. Family, work. Money. Those were the only things that mattered.
CHAPTER 3
The locker room was buzzing. A 4-1 victory as they raced toward the playoffs was certainly reason to celebrate, even if it hadn’t been a perfect game. Bennett nodded as his teammates slapped his back, congratulating him for scoring two of the night’s goals, but he didn’t touch them in return. He never did. And if that aloofness came off as confidence, Bennett didn’t correct them.
Besides, hockey was about the team, not the individual. The concept was ingrained in them from Timbits, before they could tie their own skates. There were no divas here. Each shift a group of men went into battle together, all equals. All working as one.
Hoping to avoid being grabbed for media availability, Bennett threw on a baseball cap and athletic gear and went into the empty gym. He always rode the bike after a game to flush lactic acid and reduce muscle soreness, as directed by his physio. Once he was pedaling, he watched the TV showing highlights from around the league, studying, planning. Focusing on whatever information he could use to gain a slight advantage. They had a shot at the conference finals this year and Bennett was not going to squander the opportunity.
The door opened and Easton, part of the team’s admin staff, walked in. Bennett started to call out a greeting—but his jaw closed with a decisive snap when a second man walked in, one Bennett recognized as the uninvited late-night guest at his apartment.
Fuck.
His rhythm faltered on the pedals, legs jerking awkwardly like a baby foal trying out a stationary bike, and he tried to hide his panic by looking down to adjust the tension controls. What the fuck was this guy doing here? And how had he convinced Easton to bring him down to the team training room?
All because Bennett hadn’t shown up last night. Bennett hid like a coward, and now this man was hunting him down after the game, cornering him. If Bennett wasn’t so freaked out right now, he might be impressed.
“Benny!” Easton called. “Great game tonight.”
He swallowed hard, his throat clogged with horrifying scenarios, ranging from being outed to being murdered. There really were no good outcomes here. But he had to pull it together and not give anything away, so he forced out, “Thanks, East.”
The two men drew closer and Bennett sat up straight, still pedaling (because recovery), his arms crossed as if to protect himself. His gaze flicked to the other man’s face—and he quickly looked away. No one so dangerous had a right to be this fucking hot. Again, a perfectly tailored suit, showing off his tall, lithe frame. Neatly styled dark hair. The hint of whiskers on a sharp jaw. Chiseled cheekbones and a nose that would be perfect except for a bump on the bridge where it had clearly been broken.
Bennett shoved all that aside. He couldn’t notice this man—or any man’s—attractiveness here. It was something he’d fought against his entire adult life.
“Got someone I’d like you to meet,” Easton said and gestured to the man standing with his hands casually resting in his trouser pockets. “This is Mr. Marzano. He’s a businessman here in Toronto with an interest in sponsoring the team.”
A businessman? Bennett almost laughed. Sure, that was one way to describe it.
Easton swept a hand toward Bennett. “And this is our star center, Bennett Verreault—two-time Stanley Cup champion, and recipient of three Hart trophies, two Conn Smythes, an Art Ross, and a Lady Byng.”
