Spiral (Off the Ice Book 2)
Spiral: Chapter 3

SHE IS NOT someone’s grandmother.

Aiden knocks into me as I make my way offstage. “I did good, huh?”

Good?

Her brown hair is pulled up into a bun, a loose curl framing her heart-shaped face and hazel eyes. She’s darting glances around the room like she feels out of place—that makes two of us—as she pulls her full bottom lip between her teeth. My gaze drifts to the silky fabric of her black dress, held up by two thin straps and her perfect posture.

That’s not something I’ve ever noticed before about a girl, but her upright position accentuates the length of her neck and makes her appear somehow graceful even as she sits.

Then her bright eyes catch mine, and I look away. I shouldn’t be looking in the first place.

It’s been four years, maybe five, since someone has caught my eye, and this perfectly prim-and-proper girl should not be the one to snatch my attention so easily. No one has challenged the rules I have for myself, not even in college, where I practically lived in a party house. But my mouth still feels dry.

“You couldn’t find anyone else?”

Aiden scoffs. “If you want to complain, I can call your not-so-secret admirer over.”

I shake my head, unwilling to look over to where Lana is probably stewing.

“You should thank her. She did you a favor,” he reminds me.

With reluctance, I move to her table, my heart thumping. It’s then that Marcus Smith-Beaumont slides into the chair beside her and hands her a slice of cake, and I freeze in place.

There is no way I managed to get a date with the one person who seems to know the man who despises my very being. I’ve been dodging him the entire event, and after the lecture Coach threw at me an hour ago, I know if Marcus Smith-Beaumont sees me, I’ll be in for another one. With him, it won’t be a gentle warning.

Pivoting, I head straight for the terrace, but I’m stopped by our goalie, Socket, who’s just now coming off the stage after being auctioned after me. There’s an elderly woman in the crowd who eyes him eagerly, and I assume that’s his date when he waves and winks at her.

“Where are you off to, Westbrook?”

I clear my throat. “Getting a drink.”

He raises a brow, but thankfully he doesn’t question me, and I slip outside for some air. The server comes with a tray of drinks, and I opt for water. I need something to cool down whatever is happening to my insides.

I’m sipping on the ice water, forearms pressed against the balcony, when there’s a tap on my shoulder. I turn to the same head of brown hair, the same heart-shaped face, the same hazel eyes that caught my attention earlier.

She smiles. “Hi, I’m Sage Beaumont.”

Beaumont? Crap, is Marcus her father? I’m going to kill Aiden.

I’m staring at her outstretched hand like she has some sort of disease, but she keeps it there for an awkward amount of time, waiting for me to take it.

“You want to fist-bump instead?” she offers, curling her fingers. Like I’m five years old and haven’t learned how to shake hands, though it probably seems that way from my guarded body language. I still haven’t managed to turn fully toward her, my torso twisted awkwardly. I also think my words are caught somewhere in my throat.

My agent, Mason, must have followed me because he comes to my rescue before I can find my voice. He’s watching Sage, calculating and assessing. “I’m Mason, and you are?”

Her smile evaporates when she looks between us. “Seriously? You need your assistant to talk to me?”

Mason steps forward. “His agent, actually.”

Her scoff is one of disbelief. “Well then, Mason, can you tell your client I didn’t do that for him,” she says. “His friend asked, and my little brother happens to be a huge Crawford fan. So, you don’t owe me anything, especially not a date, Elias.”

Her words are sharp, but the way she says my full name is a dart landing a bull’s-eye. No one calls me Elias, not my friends, not the fans, and definitely not someone who just met me.

“It’s Eli.”

She freezes, pivoting to look at me. “It talks! There’s been a miracle,” she exclaims. “Well, Mason, looks like you’re out of a job.”

Mason doesn’t laugh, but I do. He shoots me an unimpressed look, then one at Sage, and turns to leave. I assume he’s declared the threat neutralized because Sage doesn’t seem like the type of woman to put me in a headline by tomorrow morning.

“Thank you,” I finally say.

“No need. I didn’t do it for you, remember?”

When she’s going to walk away, I feel like an asshole. “But I still owe you a date.” I’m not sure why I say it, and she must be thinking the same thing, because her brows knit in confusion.

She gave me a perfect out seconds ago, but I don’t want her to think I’m an asshole—not only because I’m terrified of Marcus, but because she did something nice for me.

“No, thanks. I’m not really into hockey players anymore, and you just reminded me why.” Her words are sweet, but the insult hits just the same.

“You’ve dated a hockey player?”

“Wish I hadn’t,” she mutters. “You’re off the hook.”

“But it’s for charity.” Why am I pushing this?

Her patience seems to be a frayed rope, but she relents. “Fine, you can put your number in my phone.”

With her phone in my hand, I realize I’m in way over my head, but I add my number anyway.

“See you around, Elias.” This time I don’t correct her, and she disappears inside.

To escape the gnawing feeling in my gut, I pull out my phone to see it littered with texts from the group chat. Leaving college for the NHL was a huge change, but since Aiden and I signed with the Thunder back in November, we had time to finish all our coursework a month before the end of spring semester and left Dalton a few weeks ago, but it doesn’t feel like it because of all the texts we get from our friends still at Dalton.

BUNNY PATROL

Dylan Donovan: Another girl in Eli’s hotel room? I’m impressed.

Aiden Crawford: He’s not happy about it.

Kian Ishida: No one’s sneaking into Aiden’s hotel room.

Dylan Donovan: Probably because they’re terrified of Summer.

Kian Ishida: I don’t mind this. Eli’s barrage of fans found my account.

Dylan Donovan: Kian’s never seen so many women in his DMs. I actually heard him giggling last night.

Aiden Crawford: Good. He can stop spending every free minute texting my girlfriend.

Kian Ishida: FYI Sunny was my friend before she was your girlfriend.

Dylan Donovan: Who votes in favor of bringing back Bunny Patrol 2.0?

Sebastian Hayes: Aye

Cole Carter: Aye

Aiden Crawford: Aye

Eli Westbrook: Aye

Kian Ishida: Now you answer?!

When Kian found out we had a group chat without him—Dylan’s idea, and we called it Bunny Patrol 2.0—he moped, so we deleted it and promised never to make another.

Dylan and Kian are undrafted seniors, which means to avoid becoming free agents they’re taking their time to finish their degrees by the end of the year. Neither has locked down where they’re going to play hockey after—or if they’re going to play at all. Sebastian and Cole are juniors, and aside from hockey and parties, they don’t focus on anything else, which is the norm for NCAA hockey players.

The ice in my glass of water has melted in the time I’ve been out here, so as I’m heading back inside to orchestrate a getaway, my phone flashes with a text from my bank.

The monthly money wire has been successfully transferred into the respective account, and the name that flashes on the screen adds to the weight on my shoulders. It’s not the money that bothers me, it’s the reminder of the person who receives it that adds a drop of dread into my stomach. That dread darkens with guilt when I read the encouraging messages from my parents after last night’s game. Another easy assist and nothing to be proud of, yet they cheer me on like I’d single-handedly won the Stanley Cup.

My parents have been great about not looking at the tabloids, so I don’t worry about them seeing anything nefarious. When the very first defamatory headlines surfaced, they called me immediately, and I had to explain it was the media trying to sensationalize. That was an awkward phone call, but better than having them believe that I’ve hooked up with half of Toronto in the few weeks that I’ve been here.

When another text comes through, it’s from Aiden, telling me it’s time to bail. I don’t waste another second and head straight for the doors.