Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 93417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
“For good,” Gavin finishes.
There’s a heady pause, full of crackling electricity as a breeze whips by, my skirt rustling around my ankles. I swallow past a gorgeous knot of emotions, then say, “I want to be your girlfriend.”
Rhys lets out a long-held breath. “We want to be your boyfriends.”
Hollis’s bright blues glimmer with happiness. “We want you to be ours.”
“Friends…and lovers,” Gavin says, finishing as the hard lines of his mouth soften finally.
My heart is a roman candle, bursting with light and joy as I close the remaining distance between us and somehow throw my arms around all three of these big, strong hockey stars who have shown up for me over and over again. “You’re mine,” I whisper, my throat catching, my eyes shining, my emotions spilling over. “You’re all mine.”
For the longest time, I fervently believed romance was only for other people. I truly thought love would only hurt me. I thought my career was all I could depend on. But since the night they saved my cat, I’ve been learning slowly but surely that I can rely on people—the people who show up for me. These men who want only the best for me. Who let me be my best.
When I break the hug, I look from one to the other to the other. “I love you. All of you. All three of you.”
Hollis reaches for my hand and threads his fingers through mine. “I love you so much, Briar.”
Rhys cups one cheek. “I am madly in love with you.”
Gavin slides a hand down my neck, over my shoulder. “I love you.”
Their love professions are so very them, and with them I’m so very me.
We get in the car, and I spend the limo ride kissing my boyfriends. When we’re a few blocks away, I shoo them off, then fix my lipstick and straighten my hair.
We arrive at the gala and head inside.
I am the one with the entourage—a queen with her court.
68
THE FAKE OUT
Rhys
Fifteen more minutes and the awards begin. Fifteen minutes till our woman takes the stage to receive the prize.
I’m going to cheer the loudest.
Right now, the four of us are standing at a high table in the corner of the ballroom, chatting, toasting, enjoying life, and just being together when my phone buzzes with a text. I thought I’d silenced it. Grabbing it from my pocket, I see it’s the psychologist asking if Wednesday afternoon works for our next session.
Gavin shoots me an admonishing look. “Maybe turn that off.”
He makes a good point. But this is also a good opportunity. I haven’t told my friends yet. “I’m seeing a psychologist,” I say. “He specializes in athletes. It’s…helpful so far. I just need to confirm a time.”
Chastened perhaps, Gavin’s lips twitch in a curious grin. “Oh. My bad. And yeah, do it.”
Hollis claps my shoulder. “Good for you, man.”
I turn around, weave through the finely dressed crowds to the hall and tap out a reply when my attention snags on a man with perfectly gelled black hair, a straight nose, and a ticking jaw. I catch his profile, but his back is to me as he talks to a woman with box braids and leopard-print glasses at the end of the corridor. “What the hell kind of independent firm picks my fucking ex-girlfriend?”
I clench my fists, stopping a few feet away.
“An independent one,” the woman repeats in a warm, husky voice, holding her own against a bully and a thief.
“You have to disqualify her, Zora,” Steven seethes.
With a calm demeanor, she says, “There’s nothing in the rules saying former girlfriends of the site’s editor can’t enter.”
This guy. I’m not surprised. But there’s no way I’m going to let him hurt her ever again. We stayed close to Briar during the cocktail hour, but my senses were on high alert as he glad-handed with advertisers. Now he’s showing his true colors. A jack-in-the-box about to spring, Steven steps closer to Zora, lifts a finger.
Not on my watch.
I clear my throat. “Besides, you probably don’t want to make a scene here at the event. Or let all your advertisers know that you stole her idea for the contest in the first place,” I say pleasantly, laying on the British charm.
He wheels around and bites out, “Who the hell are you?”
One of her great boyfriends. But I don’t tell him that. He’ll find out soon enough. I don’t even know if Briar has the receipts to prove the idea was hers. But I don’t care. Sometimes on the ice, you have to fake out the opponent, make them think you have the puck when someone else does.
“A friend. But also an observer. And I can only imagine how terrible it’d look if everyone here knew you wanted to disqualify her after you stole her idea. That’d look a little bit bad,” I say it sympathetically, but with zero sympathy.