Pregame
“WOW, TRYto look less like you’re having fun.”
Grady Armstrong self-consciously pulled his hand away from his cuff link and realized he was scowling. “I can’t help it. You know I hate these things.”
His sister, Jessica, rolled her eyes, unsympathetic. “Yeah, it’s so terrible being paid millions of dollars with the catch that you’re expected to put on a tux once a year and go to a fancy party.”
Grady flinched. Jess had three Olympic hockey medals and she’d made more in one season as an NHL scout than she had in her entire professional hockey career. “It’s not like they’re gonnagiveme the Lady Byng.”
Sure, he was nominated. He’d been nominated three times now, not that he cared about individual trophies. If he couldn’t have the Cup, nothing else mattered. But they kept nominating him for the Lady Byng—hockey’s sportsmanlike conduct award—so he had to come, basically.
“Maybe if you didn’t keep letting Mad Max goad you into a fistfight at the end of the season, they would.”
Grady flushed. “I don’t let himgoad me—”
Jess snorted.
Fine, he did. It wasn’t his fault Max Lockhart had such a punchable face and insisted on putting it in front of Grady’s fist.
He’d played in the NHL for over a decade. He prided himself on his clean play, or he’d never have been nominated for so many useless Lady Byngs. Chirps didn’t get to him. He had thick skin and he was proud of it.
Max Lockhart got under it like a twelve-gauge needle, which was why Grady didn’thaveany Lady Byngs.
Besides, he started it when he broke Grady’s arm. Even if general consensus said it was an accident.
Grady sighed.
Ever the big sister, Jess patted him on the back in faux sympathy. “It’s fine. The Art Ross would get jealous if you had to put it next to another trophy anyway.”
Even if he’d won that this year instead of last, Grady wouldn’t get tokeepthe award for being the season’s top scorer. It lived in the Hockey Hall of Fame. But he guessed that wasn’t the point. “Thanks for the perspective,” he said dryly.
A server stopped by their table with a tray of champagne, and Grady took two glasses with a nod of appreciation.
She raised her flute to him. “What are siblings for?”
They touched glasses.
“Other than an excuse not to bring a real date to the NHL Awards, obviously.”
Grady downed the glass in one go out of pure spite. They’d hadthatconversation one too many times. “Jess—”
“It’s not like you’d be the only one!” She gestured over his shoulder to a table three rows over, where a couple of the Orcas were making sappy heart eyes at each other. Kirschbaum was getting the Hart—league MVP. His boyfriend wasn’t nominated for anything.
That wasn’t the problem.
“It’s not the attention.” Grady was out, but he was a low-key kind of guy. He didn’t go around in a rainbow-flag cape at Pride like some players he could mention—not because he wasn’t proud, but because he only cared about parades if there was a Stanley Cup involved.
Jess rolled her eyes. “Yeah, duh. You’ve always had that.” No trace of bitterness, even though she was objectively the better player of the two of them. “Who has time to date with hockey?” she mimicked in a fake baritone that sounded nothing like Grady. His voice wasn’t that deep. “Literally everyone else, bro. But you don’t have to date to get laid. Like, I wasn’t out there living a life of celibacy.”
As if he needed the reminder. “Thanks for that.”
She grinned. “Welcome.” Another server came around—hors d’oeuvres this time—and she snagged a couple plates. “Anyway. The point is you could have someone if you put the effort in. Your personality leaves a lot to be desired, but you’re rich and you have a nice face. Plenty of guys would hit that.”
Grady dragged one of the plates of crostini over in front of him. “Stop. I’m blushing.”
Jess didn’t have time for a rejoinder, because the microphone made a godawful screech as the commissioner stepped up to the podium.
Fantastic. Time for the show to begin.
