I stare out the window, watching a guy on a scooter nearly get clipped by a cab. “Oh, you know. I couldn’t be bothered.”
Brody snorts. “She was beautiful. Like... insane-level beautiful.” He pauses. “Wait, hang on. Don’t tell me. You’ve got the hots for McCullum’s daughter. Cassy.”
I don’t respond. Don’t have to. The silence says enough.
Brody grins like he’s just solved a puzzle and is way too proud of himself.
Before I can tell him to shut up, Coach McCullum stands at the front of the bus, gripping the rail beside the driver.
“Okay. You’ve all been paired up in double suites. Don’t break the hotel, and behave yourselves. At least off the ice, that is. GOT IT?”
Murmurs ripple through the team. A few groans. Someone swears under his breath. Then all together like bored school kids: “Yes, Coach.”
We all start moving. Bags are yanked from overhead racks. Phones unplugged. Sleepy bodies are dragged upright.
I lean into Brody as we stand. “Look, keep this to yourself. I don’t want to want her. She’s snobby. Loud. Too confident. Annoying as hell.” I grab my bag. “But... fuck. I think I do.”
Brody whistles low. “Well, shit.”
Outside, the cold hits us in the face as we step off the bus. Vancouver’s air always smells cleaner than Vegas, like it’s trying to convince you it’s wholesome.
Brody glances at McCullum and starts singing under his breath, ? “I can see trouble ahead…” ?
Yeah... you and me both!
Behind me, Thumper smacks my head, his palms rough against my hair.
“Oh, grow up,” I turn immediately and jab my index finger straight up his nose, then wipe it clean across Bishy’s hoodie as we walk.
Bishy looks down and mutters something that sounds like “What the fuck?” But he keeps walking like he’s seen worse.
The hotel lobby is bright, minimalistic, and smells like too much lemon polish. Everything’s marble and glass and polished surfaces, and the staff pretend not to notice twenty-six hockey players stomping through like we own the place.
Ahead of us, the team’s three security guys fan out, Walt, Deeks, and Anton, their shoulders wide, jackets plain, and eyes scanning everything.
They don’t say much. They never do. They just move like they’ve already memorized every square inch of the place and are two steps ahead of any bullshit.
A couple of Hilton staff are already waiting near the check-in desk and smiling like they trained for this. Name tags, corporate charm, not a hair out of place.
They’ve even set up a welcome table. Bottled water with the Aces logo printed on the labels, branded protein bars, neat little pouches with keycards inside, and one of those stupid signs that says, ‘Welcome Vegas Aces!’ Like we’re here for prom.
“Jesus,” Thumper mutters, grabbing a water. “They could at least hand out mini bottles of whisky or something. I feel like I just won a pageant.”
“Bet they thought you were the mascot,” Peters grins.
The check-in process is a blur of organized chaos. Our travel coordinator, Lenny, handles everything. Clipboard, headset, that stressed-out look he always wears like it’s part of his outfit. He ticks names off his list like he’s launching rockets. Room pairings flash across his tablet.
“Keycards are all set,” he calls out. “If you lose them, don’t call me. Call God.”
We form a loose, grumbling line. Most of the guys aren’t even paying attention, just holding out their hands for keycards like it’s Halloween and they’re expecting candy. A couple of bellhops swarm around with carts, grabbing our duffels and hockey bags.
“Don’t you dare lose my bag,” Brody mutters, handing his over.
Floor 31 is ours. The whole damn floor is blocked off, which means no whining families, no screaming kids, and no one to complain when Vasko starts blasting Romanian techno in the hallway again.
Coach McCullum steps into the middle of the lobby, his hands shoved in his coat pockets, looking like someone who hasn’t slept in 20 years.
“Alright, listen up,” he calls. “Go upstairs and freshen up, but I want everyone down at the Garden Terrace on the 7th floor in forty minutes. Meeting first, then we eat. Don’t be late. Don’t be assholes. Try not to embarrass me.”
