Body Checked (Center Ice Book 1) (18 page)

“Dammit! I was hoping you’d forget.” She covers her face with her hands. “You sure there aren’t any other existential crises I can help you with? Maybe something involving alcohol?” 

“Sorry, no alcohol for you tonight.” I eye the collection of empty coffee cups stacked beneath her current one. “You should probably lay off the caffeine, too. Ready for some super exciting . . .” I squint at the first notecard. “Uhh . . . relational logic problems?” 

Beth groans. “My life is a relational logic problem.” 

“Mine, too, Beth. Mine, too.” 

I knew it was coming. Only I didn’t know when. 

 I’m scrolling through my usual news feeds over the weekend when it leaps up and slaps me in the face.
WASHINGTON EAGLES PAINT WINDY CITY RED AND BLUE.
I know better than to click on the link. Every self-preservation instinct in my addled brain is screaming at me not to click the link. I know that nothing good can
possibly
come of clicking the link. 

I click the link. 

We were starting to wonder when the infamous bad-boy side of the Eagles’ newest teammate, Russian hockey star Sergei Drakonov, was going to rear its head! The Eagles are on a three-city away stretch, but that crazy schedule didn’t stop Drakonov and pals Marcus Wright (center) and Brian Osbourne (goalie) from partying hard in Chicago’s sexiest and most exclusive nightclub, UMBRA. Our sources tell us the trio had a private room with seven or eight of their closest lady friends to accompany them. According to the sources, the total bill for the party was in the “tens of thousands” and included some undisclosed form of damage to the property.
 

Drakonov was famously engaged to Russian Olympic gymnast Anastasia Fillipova two years ago, when he was a rising star in the Russian KHL hockey league, but hasn’t been romantically linked to anyone in some time. Ladies, start your engines—looks like the Russian Dragon is ready to breathe some fire in the States after all!
 

I peek at the photograph between my fingers. Sergei lounges on a plush couch with no less than three girls, cocktail dresses hiked up past their thighs, draped over him. Everyone’s eyes are glassy, reflecting red from the illicit camera flash, and Sergei holds up one hand in a halfhearted effort to block the light. Marcus Wright, in the foreground, raises one quizzical eyebrow as he peeks into frame from a doorway, while Osbourne pours a glass of champagne off to the side. 

Drakonov was injured in last week’s win against the Seattle Bombers, but returned to the ice in Chicago to secure a 5-3 win for the Eagles. The team is slated to host regional rivals, the Pittsburgh Forge, during the annual Thanksgiving Classic at the Eagles Arena next week, but a recent incident aboard the Eagles plane has thrown the team’s fitness for that game into doubt. “No one’s really clear on what happened,” one Eagles equipment assistant told us, under the condition of anonymity. “Some people are saying the SWAT raided the plane, or I heard that they raided Drakonov’s house—all kinds of crazy stories, none of which add up. But Drakonov’s still here, he’s still playing the best game of hockey he can play, so at the end of the day, that’s all [Eagles owner Mylo] Saukonis cares about.”
 

I slam my laptop closed, fling it to the other side of my bed, and bury my head back underneath the pillow. 

Beth takes the LSAT on Tuesday, which is also our last day of classes before Thanksgiving break. Monique and I are waiting for her outside the testing center with a box of cupcakes from her favorite bakery. “Y’all are ridiculous,” Beth says, her Kentucky twang slipping out in her beaten-down state. “I love you so much.” 

“You think this is ridiculous,” Monique says, “wait until you see the spread we’ll be feasting on in the box on Thursday. Saukonis is hiring the chef from Pluribus to cater for all the private box holders.” 

Right. At the Thanksgiving Classic. My stomach flips over. “Listen, guys . . . I’m not sure I’m up for attending the Classic.” 

Monique stops dead in her tracks and whirls on me. “Jael Motherfucking Pereira.” 

“—Um, my middle name’s Analucia—” 

“You are
not
going to let some overgrown fuckboy ruin your favorite sport for you. Your favorite hobby, your favorite language . . .” 

“Your favorite thing to do with your friends,” Beth says. 

“Exactly. You don’t have to cheer for him, you don’t even have to
acknowledge he exists
. But don’t you dare let him ruin anything more for you than he already has.” Monique folds her arms and glares at me—the same soul-shriveling glare she used to part the seas of media personnel in the backstage of the arena for me so long ago. 

“He didn’t ruin anything,” I say, more to myself than anything. “I did.” 

Beth and Monique exchange a look. 

“Fortunately for you, girl, we have just the thing you need,” Beth says. “The start-of-Thanksgiving-break mixer.” 

“Senior-year students only, open bar, no red plastic cups allowed,” Monique says. 

I groan. “I’m really not in the mood for a mixer.” 

“You’re not in the mood for anything right now. And I respect that, really I do.” Monique smiles. “But you’re going to go anyway, because that’s the only way we’re going to shake you out of your current mood.” 

Beth bats her eyes at me. “C’mon, J. I just took the freaking LSAT. I could really use a drink or thirty. Celebrate with us? Pretty please?” 

And that’s how I wind up at the Gamma House’s mixer at a swanky lounge in Georgetown, wearing the black velvet cocktail dress I haven’t worn since Sergei Drakonov rode me like a stolen Bentley in it. (I point out to Beth and Monique that it’s currently forty-five degrees outside. “So wear a coat,” Monique says.) Beth works her eye shadow wizardry on all three of us—shades of silver for her, gold and bronze for me and Monique—and we grab a car service to Georgetown. 

“Hello, ladies,” Pierce Addison, the Gamma House president, greets us. A few too many buttons on his polo shirt are unbuttoned, and his gaze looks watery with drink. He stretches out each vowel like it’s a bra he’s trying to snap. “So glad you could join us.” 

“Cool your dick, Pierce,” Monique tells him. “Where’s the open bar?” 

Pierce manages a tight smile and sweeps his arm toward the right, like he’s some bodice-ripper earl welcoming us to his estate. “Just this way, my dears. Please, allow me to escort you.” 

I roll my eyes. “Thanks, but we can find it on our own.” 

“Creeper,” Monique mutters, as soon as we’re out of Pierce’s earshot. 

“I dunno. He’s kinda cute.” Beth holds up her hands as Monique turns toward her. “Not for
me
. But he’s always had a thing for Jael.” 

“What?” I cry. “He has not—I mean, he’s good friends with Todd, and—” 

“Exactly,” Beth says, waggling her eyebrows suggestively. 

“Jael? You want some Pierce Addison tongue down your throat to clear your head?” Monique asks. 

I shudder. “No way. I’m done with trust fund boys. And hockey players. And—well, everyone.” 

Beth smiles slowly. “I’m sure we can find
some
one for you here.” 

“Monique Davis! Excuse me, Monique, do you have a moment?” 

Fiona Callahan rushes toward us from the bar, her hourglass curves spilling out of a dark green satin dress. Tall, built like a ’50s Hollywood goddess, with a waterfall of dark red hair—everyone at school knows Fiona, the school newspaper’s editor-in-chief, whether they love her or fear her. Usually a little bit of both. “Oh, shit,” Monique says under her breath. 

Fiona whips her phone right under Monique’s chin. “I hear the FBI recently searched the Washington Eagles team plane. As the recipient of a trust that receives partial funding from the proceeds of the Eagles hockey team, I thought you might be able to—” 

“Nope.” Monique shoves past Fiona. “Don’t know anything about it.” 

“—I’d love it if you could explain how the Eagles, an upstanding team with an impeccable record with the league, have found themselves—” 

“Sorry, Fiona, I just spend the money.” Monique smiles viciously. “Don’t care where it comes from.” 

“Now, Monique, we both know that’s not true.” Fiona mimics her smile perfectly. “Ahh, Jael. I understand you’ve been spotted lurking around the Eagles arena yourself lately.” 

“Excuse me?” 

Fiona turns her phone toward me. “I saw you going with Monique into the Eagles’ medical suite the night Sergei Drakonov was injured. Are you an Eagles employee now?” Her eyes glitter, pure ice, as she smiles. “Or was it in a more personal capacity?” 

“Fiona, I don’t know what the hell kind of story you think you’re digging up.” Monique puts one finger on the edge of Fiona’s phone. “But unless you want me to call the Eagles’ legal team right the fuck now to sue the shit out of you and the school paper, you’d better run back to your gutter.” 

Fiona’s smile hardens on her face. After a few moments, she slowly lowers her phone, lacquered nails clicking together. “Nice chat, girls. We’ll be in touch.” She spins on her heel and sashays away. 

“What in the actual hell,” Beth says, as soon as Fiona’s gone. 

“Fiona’s always digging for a story. Remember when she grilled Professor Belskaya over some alleged misappropriation of the Russian department’s study abroad funds?” I ask. “Ignore her and she’ll find something else to latch onto.” 

Monique slings her arms around Beth’s and my shoulders. “I just don’t want her to latch onto you, Jael. You’ve dealt with enough.” 

“Come on,” I say. “Let’s get some freaking drinks.” 

Once Pierce Addison and Fiona Callahan find new victims for their respective brands of obnoxiousness, and we sample the many premium cocktails on offer courtesy the Gamma House, I’m actually feeling okay. Sure, the TV at one end of the bar is playing tonight’s Eagles game, but it’s not like I spend the whole night watching it. Like, not even half the night. Only two-fifths. 

“Jael? Wow. You look—incredible.” 

I keep watching the game just long enough to see Sergei miss a pass. The puck skitters off into the waiting sticks of the Dallas Longhorns’ defense. Slowly, I turn around to find Todd Beckwith, tucked and trim in a three-piece suit. I almost laugh at the absurdity of it, but it actually works for him.