Moonlighter (The Company, #1)(52)

Our defeated opponents put their hands on their knees, breathing hard. They’re only rookies, anyway. This is the week when twenty guys from our affiliate teams in the minor leagues are invited to a training camp skate.

It’s always a brutal scrimmage. Management likes to see how we stack up against the young punks they’re grooming to take over our spots. But we won, damn it. Even if I’ll need an ice bath, a massage, and a double cheeseburger just to feel human again.

We line up to shake hands with the youngsters. And then finally we make our way toward the overcrowded dressing room.

Lord, with twice as many players, it’s the crush of humanity in here. Beside me, my teammate Castro shakes his head. “I feel like such a geezer right now.”

“Stop,” I grunt. “If you’re a geezer, then I’m prehistoric.” Castro isn’t the one whose knee is taped up so completely that it might as well be mummified. “At least we could have some fun with the rookies.”

“What do you mean?”

“Hey rookie!” I shout into the melee.

Seven or eight heads turn in our direction at once.

“I was just checking to see who was paying attention.”

My other teammates crack up. “Yo!” Leo Trevi calls. “Someone here is going to end up answering to that name all year, though,” Leo muses. “Who’s it gonna be?”

The minor league guys all grin, but nobody raises his hand. They know better than to boast before our next scrimmage. We’d flatten whomever dared to claim the title before proving himself worthy.

I fucking love it in this room. They’re gonna have to carry me out of here feet first.

“Okay, listen up, kids!” Leo’s wife hops up onto a bench. “I’m Georgia Trevi, co-head of publicity. The veterans already know the drill. But history has shown that everyone can use a reminder. And you’ll answer to me if you get this wrong.”

The room is silent, with all the youngsters listening as if their lives depended on it.

“So long as you’re here in Brooklyn you’re representing the Bruisers organization. I expect you to take care with your actions outside the rink as well as inside. I don’t want to see any bar brawls. No photos of you guys acting crazy. No public drunkenness. You want to blow off steam tonight, you do it responsibly. Also? Twenty minutes, boys. Then Coach wants you in the video room.” She hops off the bench.

“Good speech, you badass,” Leo says to his wife.

“That all goes for you, too, hot stuff.” She gives him a smile. “But right now, I have some business with Bayer.”

“What did I do?”

Georgia puts her hands on her hips. “What’s with the vacation pictures in Hawaii? You and Alex Engels? How did I not hear this gossip?”

Pictures? Uh oh. “Don’t believe everything you read, Georgia.”

“Are you saying this isn’t you?” She pulls out her phone and scrolls through a gossip blog I’ve never heard of. “Here.”

As she thrusts the phone at me, I have a moment of dread. What the hell am I about to see? And how much trouble will it cause for Alex?

Naturally, Leo and Castro crowd me on either side.

But my first glimpse of the photo fills me with relief. It’s a simple snap of Alex and I walking down the beach together. She’s laughing, and I’m grinning. We look deliriously happy, but we’re not even holding hands. This is not a scandalous photo. Not today, Satan.

“Whoa!” Castro says. “Look at you with the secret billionaire romance.”

“Nah,” I say, handing Georgia back her phone. “We’re just old friends.”

“Really?” Trevi says. “Old friends who vacation together in Hawaii?”

“Sometimes,” I say mildly.

“Because that happens all the time.” Georgia’s eyes glimmer with questions.

“Hey—aren’t you the publicist? You’re supposed to hate gossip about the players.”

“Oh, I hate it in the press. But I like it for myself. So, Romeo, how do you explain this…” She opens a folder she’s carrying and pulls out a cream-colored envelope addressed to me at the team headquarters. And the return address is Alex’s company’s office tower in Manhattan.

“Easily. It’s probably a thank you note.”

“Thank you for what, exactly?” Castro snickers.

“She needed a date to this thing in Hawaii, so I went. Big sacrifice, right? A quick trip on her private jet.” I slide my thumb beneath the envelope flap and then pull out the card.

When I open it, there’s an immediate peal of laughter. Because Alex has included a copy of that photo from twenty-one years ago, with her looking preternaturally mature and beautiful, and me looking like an escapee from the Lil’ Rascals movie.

“You weren’t kidding about the old friends thing,” Georgia giggles. “That photo makes me want to go out and buy you a sandwich.”

“I’ll take a sandwich. Anytime, anywhere.”

“Let me see that.” Jason reaches over and grabs the picture, probably with the hopes of passing it around the locker room. Whatever. But then he freezes. “Oh, shit. Bayer, man. Wow.” I look down at the card and see a second photo there as well.

It’s a sonogram image of a fetus.