“What’s that?”

“Leave it out there for now. And you and I can drink it later,” he says, his voice richening to a suggestive pitch. “If you’re into that.”

Wait. Now hold on a second. Did Weston just proposition me? For real? I might do a happy dance right here on Lila’s fussy new rug.

“Hello, sir,” Weston says in the next breath. “You must be Dr. Ritter.”

And sure enough, my stepfather is right here with us, reaching out a hand to shake Weston’s. “Call me Dalton,” he says.

They introduce themselves to each other while I stand here feeling befuddled. A second ago—when Weston suggested we save the wine for later—it felt so real. My mind offered up a few naughty ideas on command.

But now I realize that Weston probably saw Dalton approaching and whispered to me because it made us look like a convincing couple. Just a hot hockey player having a private moment with his girlfriend, right?

That has to be it. Weston is just doing his best to nail this acting job.

And it’s too damn bad. Because white wine and a hookup with Weston Griggs would be the most fun I’ve had since…ever.

“Abbi?” Dalton’s voice breaks through my reverie. “Are you coming?”

“Yes,” I say quickly.

Weston takes my hand in his and gives it a friendly squeeze. And that feels nice, too.

It’s all pretend, Abbi, I coach myself. Don’t you forget it.

SIXTEEN

Anyone Get it on Video?

September

ANTON

It’s a Wednesday afternoon during the preseason, and I should really be in the locker room. But I’m standing in an office in the Bruisers’ headquarters, waiting to find out if I still have a NHL career.

Practice starts in thirty minutes. If they wanted me down there, I’d already know, wouldn’t I?

* * *

My hands are clammy and my heart rate is erratic. So this is what it feels like when fate brings the hammer down. If only I could go back in time and make better choices. I wouldn’t be standing here sweating.

Couldn’t they just fire me already? I’m dying here.

Prayer probably won’t work, even if this is one of those moments when I’m tempted to bargain with God. What would I even say?

Dear Lord—I’m sorry for all the cockiness I displayed last year. You know my stats were great during my rookie season. But then I kinda self-destructed.

I’m sorry I didn’t leave the bar earlier all those times when I should have. I’m sorry about missing the team jet that time in Arizona when I had no business being so hungover in the middle of a road trip.

On the matter of a certain compromising photo, I think we can both agree that the incident with those women was not really my fault. But I do apologize for putting myself in that situation and allowing for that tacky result.

But I am most sorry for the worst sin of all—squandering all those opportunities. You gave me a shot at greatness. But I started my second season on the struggle bus. And after that disastrous game against Chicago, you (in your infinite wisdom) sent me down to purgatory—aka the minor league team in Hartford. I had to watch on TV while the Bruisers went to the playoffs.