All You Need, Page 25

  It was like watching a snowball gather momentum. You knew it’d keep getting bigger and bigger and bring more and more people into it, but you had no idea how to stop it.

  So I didn’t move. I figured I deserved to get steamrolled.

  Me and my brilliant fucking ideas.

  I thought I’d have control here.

  Someone moved in beside me. The brown hair threw me off for a fraction of a second.

  “Holy shit. What happened?”

  “WAGs waging war. Security is blowing off doing their job to get blown by a puck bunny—I guess they’d be a badge bunny now. Fistfights have broken out. Some people like them”—I leaned closer to her and pointed to Flitte and McClellan—“are just watching it explode while I’m wondering if I’ll get kicked out of my apartment.”

  Annika was quiet for a moment. “There is a bright side, Axl.”

  “Which is?”

  “No one will ever ask you to plan a party again.”

  I laughed. I faced her and kissed her, taking a moment to rest my forehead to hers. “Escape while you can, Attila.”

  “Have you seen Dallas? She’s my ride.”

  “I think I saw Igor follow her outside a few minutes ago.”

  “Okay.” She stepped back. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

  “Just pick up when I call you. I might be in jail needing you to bail me out.”

  Nineteen

  ___

  ANNIKA

  Saturday morning I’d gone into the office to catch up on things I never seemed to have time to finish during the workweek. I’d shown up in my normal weekend wear: baggy sweatpants, a long-sleeved T-shirt—Credit Dauphine today, a nod to my stealth skills last night—and wool socks that I wore with flip-flops. No makeup, especially nothing on my eyes. I’d had a slight reaction to the eyeliner Dallas had used on me. And even after I’d removed it last night, I woke this morning with red streaks on my eyelids and beneath my lash lines. And to top off my fashion statement, I’d slicked my hair back in a retro ’80s banana hair clip. My head itched like crazy after wearing a wig last night. I looked like a refugee, but I didn’t care. Who’d see me?

  Note to self: Even thinking those words is akin to daring fate to see how much it can piss with you.

  Around eleven a.m. the text messages on my phone started to blow up, forcing me to go online to see what the buzz was. First I read the Twin Cities Daily Reader headline:

  MEMBERS OF THE WILD HAVE A WILD LATE NIGHT IN MINNEAPOLIS

  A private party celebrating the first win of the season for the hockey team took a bizarre turn late Friday night, when the police were called to break up numerous fights, including an altercation between pro snowboarder Martin Michaels and hockey player Axl Hammerquist.

  I stopped scrolling. What the hell had happened after I left? Axl and Martin had gotten into an actual fight? Martin defined the mellow, stoner, “bitchin’ powder, dude” type of athlete. Axl would wipe the floor with him. And they were best buds anyway. I kept scrolling.

  Neither man sustained injuries serious enough to require medical attention. Hammerquist admitted to authorities he was solely responsible for hosting the party and “Things got a little out of hand.” While Hammerquist confirmed the rumor that two members of the Philadelphia team that had lost earlier in the night to the Wild had crashed the party and that contributed to increased tensions, Hammerquist refused to comment on the identity of the woman he was seen with at the party (see picture) and refused to answer any questions on the status of his relationship with Annika Lund.

  I enlarged the image. Someone had taken a shot in the main room when Axl had kissed me.

  Oh no. No, no, no, no, no.

  Talk about damning. All you could see of me was my profile and curly brown hair and Axl’s lips pressed to mine. For once, Axl hadn’t thought twice about it. I’d said something to make him smile and he kissed me to show his gratitude and cement our connection.

  That was it.

  But it was not what it looked like. At all.

  It would be so freaking funny that the media were speculating that Axl was cheating on me . . . with me . . . except for the fact that the whole point of this PR campaign was to change his image.

  To complicate matters even more, there was no way I could come forward and say, “Well, I knew Axl was lying to me about something, so my cousin and I disguised ourselves and crashed a private party to see if we could catch him lying in the act.”

  Not only would my mistrust of Axl look bad, but I’d come across as a total flake. I’d worked hard to build my reputation working for Lund Industries on my own merits outside of being a Lund heiress.

  Tempting to beat my head into my desk, but my brain already hurt.

  I cleared my browsing history before I shut down my computer. Then I powered off my phone. I’d deal with all that when I got home.

  In an effort to curtail the workaholic tendencies that plagued the Lund family, my uncle Archer had recently instituted a lockdown of the executive facilities on the weekends. No access to our private parking garage. That was a huge perk, especially in the winter. It really made me consider if I needed to be in the office at all—which was the whole point.

  I took the stairs to the lobby level and exited the main front entrance.

  Reporters were lying in wait for me . . . which was a totally new experience. One I never wanted to repeat.

  “Miss Lund, will you comment on the picture of your boyfriend kissing another woman?”

  Keep walking.

  “Just a few hours earlier, ‘The Hammer’ kissed you and it was broadcast inside the arena on the kiss cam. Did you have a fight after the game?”

  Do not respond.

  “Are you and ‘The Hammer’ calling it quits?”

  Do not comment.

  “Given ‘The Hammer’s’ reputation, were you surprised that he was caught with another woman?”

  There is no other woman!

  “Miss Lund, care to comment on your appearance today? Is this the look of a brokenhearted and devastated woman?”

  That stopped me. I looked up.

  Mistake.

  Cameras whirred.

  Thankfully I was only a few steps from my car.

  I hopped in and burned rubber getting away from them.

  • • •

  The first shitty pictures showed up online a few hours later.

  Red eyes that looked as if I’d been crying for hours?

  Check.

  Bag lady clothing and downtrodden appearance?

  Check.

  Slumped posture as I exited the building?

  Check.

  Look of utter devastation at the reporters’ line of questioning?

  Check.

  But since I hadn’t commented on any of the articles or answered questions, they couldn’t speculate beyond publishing the sad-sack pictures of me.

  I’d gotten one text from Axl.

  AH: Coach is mad about the party. We’re in media blackout until tomorrow’s game is over, so this has to be fast. Peter said he can’t get in touch with you. I’ve told him to back off. We will deal with this when I get back. I’ll call you as soon as I can. Take care. You are on my mind, Attila. Be strong. And laugh. Between us? It is sort of funny that I’m cheating on you . . . with you

  At least Axl and I could both see some of the humor in it . . . for now.

  • • •

  By Sunday afternoon, I considered pitching my phone off my balcony. It’d probably make a very satisfying crack when it shattered on the pavement below.

  But it was the only way Axl and I were keeping in touch.

  I hated this for him.

  Except he was playing great hockey according to the stats I saw—and didn’t completely understand—on SportsCenter. That forced him into being part of the press conference on Saturday night. He said “no comment” to anything besides a question on hockey. They played tonight in Anaheim, so maybe I’d actually get to tal
k to him on the phone.

  My phone rang. Even before the second set of drumbeats to ABBA’s “Does Your Mother Know?”—I knew it was her. Not only because I’d been avoiding my entire family, but because it was game day. “Hey, Mom. Go ahead and put me on speaker. I know you guys are pregaming.”

  “Are you all right?” she said in English.

  “Besides my phone blowing up with messages from snoopy people I haven’t heard from in years? Besides the press camping out at LI and snapping pictures of me in my Saturday worst? Besides that? I’m great. Happy that I can get food delivery until this dies down.”

  “Hiding is not like you, Annika. We send car service to pick you up in your garage and bring you to the game. A hoodie will keep you incongruous.”

  “You mean . . . inconspicuous.”

  “Yah. Whatever. You need to be with your family.”

  “It’s Jensen’s game day. That’s probably where they’ll look for me—if any reporters are still on the trail. So I’ll pass.”

  “You are not avoiding us because you are red-eyed monster?”

  “No!” Did she mean green-eyed monster?

  “Show me. We FaceTime. Now.” She held the phone away. “Ward! Which button is for face flipper?”

  “Mom! Listen to me. Seriously. I. Am. Fine. I’m not crying. I am not jealous.”

  She snorted. “Of course you are not boohooing. You and Axl are PR couple, not real couple. But he reverted to bad-boy Axl, making you look like chimp—”

  “You mean chump?”

  “Yah. Whatever. But I worry you sit home alone, getting angrier with him and turning into red-eyed vengeance-seeking Valkyrie that plots to tear off his twig and berries with your claws and bathe in his blood beneath cheery moon.”

  Silence.

  Then in the background I heard my dad say, “Selka. For the love of Odin, you are banned from watching those Swedish arthouse films. And I’m pretty sure it’s cherry moon, not cheery moon.”

  “Have a great game, but I am definitely hanging up now . . .” And I did.

  ___

  AXL

  Jorgen took the seat beside me on the bus. “You all right?” he said in Finnish.

  “Tired. Ribs hurt. You?”

  “I got clocked in the jaw at some point, so it’s sore.”

  I smirked and turned my head toward him, miming a blow job. “You sure you don’t remember how your jaw got sore?”

  “Piss off.”

  Jorgen was gay. In the closet. I didn’t care how he lived his life. I knew only because he and I had come up through the AHL at the same time and I spoke Finnish, so I’d overheard a conversation he’d assumed was private. He’d gotten transferred to the Wild last season, so during travel days we’d been catching up.

  “Still dealing with the fallout from your party?” he asked.

  “Hit me in the head with your stick if I ever agree to that again.”

  “Gladly. So, the brunette?”

  “Not a topic of conversation,” I snapped.

  “The Swede has a temper off the ice. Call the press,” he said drolly.

  “Fuck off, Finn. Why are you annoying me?”

  “I wanted to ask about a guy I met at the party. A fellow Finn. Boris someone. I couldn’t tell if he was giving me a . . . signal.”

  I shrugged. “Could be.”

  “So he’s not in a relationship?”

  “Mostly he’s in a relationship with pot. He shows up to play video games at my place a lot. You could come hang out and see what’s there.”

  He grinned at me. “Cool. I’ll do that. Thanks.”

  After he left I moved over a seat as a sign that I didn’t want anyone to join me.

  It’d been a rough couple of days—on the ice and off.

  Starting with the game Friday night.

  Then the stupid party I’d agreed to afterward.

  And my frustration with the situation with Annika. I needed her in my bed. We’d be good together, but I didn’t want to screw things up with her, because I really liked her. Not pretend PR liked her, but liked her for real, which for some reason she didn’t believe. So by her not trusting me, she’d screwed things up by showing up in that wig. And because I couldn’t seem to keep my mouth off her, I’d kissed her, which ended up being a problem.

  Everyone had seen me kiss the brunette. No one except Igor had known it was Annika.

  Immediately after Annika had left with Dallas, Martin started shit with me about cheating.

  By that time the Wild WAGs were yelling at me for throwing a secret party and some bunnies told the wives it wasn’t any of their business because they hadn’t been invited and the hair pulling started.

  The neighbors from the building across from ours had had enough and showed up to shout at us in person.

  Verily got in a Danish curler’s face; more girl fighting ensued, which gave my teammates wood. So they were pissed off when the skiers from Switzerland tried to break up the girl fight. Insults flew about hockey players being talentless hacks and then it was on. Even the guys from Philly joined in.

  Mass fucking chaos.

  Right about then Martin sucker-punched me.

  I told him to back off and he kept coming. So his second punch earned him a headlock.

  That was when the police arrived.

  I spent the next two hours sorting things out with the cops. Another hour dealing with the building and the property manager, signing promissory notes for cleanup and damages. By then I had three hours of sleep before I had to get packed to leave for two days on the road. So I’d been so busy dealing with my end of things—from my teammates assuring me it was the best party ever, to Coach informing me I was personally responsible for the full media blackout after the angry WAGs’ phone calls, and media attention—that I hadn’t considered that pictures of me kissing Annika as a brunette might show up in public.

  When Peter had forwarded me the link to the article with the pictures, before Coach had confiscated our phones, Igor had stopped me from beating the hell out of my locker with my fists.

  I knew this one would be bad and maybe there’d be no PR solution.