“Shame that our job sucks so much,” I say.
“It’s the worst,” my right-hand man agrees, lifting his glass of champagne.
“Watching sports. Going to awards. Vying for huge trophies,” I sigh.
“Having fun is a curse.”
“I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.”
“Oh, but here’s something!” Matthew straightens from the bar like something caught his eye, then leans in to whisper, “Somebody is heading toward you.”
Someone is.
Crosby.
Looking fantastic with that launch-a-thousand-ships smile, those carved cheekbones, that sturdy jawline with just the right amount of stubble. And his body, built by baseball, broad shoulders, strong pecs, and doubtlessly fantastic abs under his formal jacket.
“Some men were just made to wear tuxes,” I say.
Matthew rolls his eyes. “I have no opinion on the matter. On an unrelated note, I’m going away to go talk to Phoebe.”
“Have fun.”
“I will,” he deadpans. “And have fun with your third baseman.”
Finally, I drag my gaze from Crosby and look at Matthew—and his smirk. “It’s not like that,” I protest.
“Of course not.” He waits a beat. “That was sarcasm, if you were wondering.”
He’s off before I can reply, and then Crosby saunters up to me. He brings me in for a huge hug, holding me tighter, embracing me closer than I expect.
“Oh.” I’m breathless when he eases up. “That was quite a hug.”
“I can’t resist. You’re easy to hug, Wild Girl,” Crosby says, using his nickname for me from when we were kids.
“I didn’t say I minded.” My eyes float closed, and ever so briefly, I let myself inhale his clean, showered scent, since he’s still close.
It should be illegal for a man to smell so good.
Crosby nods at my champagne glass. “I see you already have your drink.”
“This?” I tip my head back and drain the little bit that’s left. “Just for starters.”
He chuckles and gestures to the bartender for two more glasses, handing one to me. When he leans against the bar, taking Matthew’s spot, he looks cool and casual, his dark hair neat and combed instead of sticking up wildly like when he takes his baseball cap off. Both looks are good on him. Terrific in a tux and mouthwatering in his baseball uniform.
When he turns his blue eyes my way, they’re twinkling with humor. “So how is your precious trophy doing? Are you taking good care of it? Giving it treats and petting it every day?”
I roll my eyes. “It shows fingerprints like crazy. After a few weeks, I took pity on the cleaners who have to polish it. Now I just rub it for luck before I head to The Extravagant to hit the tables.”
“So that’s how it is. You can’t resist the lure of the casinos.” He shakes his head sadly. “You’ve gone full Vegas.”
“Hardly. I do enjoy a game of cards every now and then.” I sigh and lean back with my elbows on the bar. “Sadly, a lot of our fans seem to enjoy an afternoon gambling session too.”
He turns serious, picking up on my mood. “Are fans gambling at your Hawks games?”
“No, I don’t mean like that.”
“How do you mean, then?”
I didn’t mean for my current predicament to slip out into our conversation, and I certainly don’t intend to dump my woes on him—business or personal.
But when I glance at him, I reconsider. He is in the industry, and he seems genuinely interested.
I turn to face him. “It’s just getting harder every year to vie for the attention of people in Las Vegas—visitors and locals. There are so many entertainment options. About a million slot machines, for starters. Then there are the shows—Cirque du Soleil, concerts at The Extravagant, magic acts . . . Attending a football game isn’t high on people’s lists.”
His brow furrows as he concentrates. “I can see that’d be a bit of an issue with people just wanting a show or an experience. But are those the same people who really follow football? Cirque and football seem like apples and oranges to me, and there’s no contest. But then,” he says a little sheepishly, like admitting a secret, “I’m kind of a die-hard sports fan.”
“Big shock,” I say dryly.
“I know. Such a surprise.”
“Okay, but you—and other die-hard fans—are a different profile than the average entertainment consumer. It’s not just the Hawks—other Vegas teams are having the same issue. It’s a real challenge to pry people away from the roulette wheels and the slots. Not to mention the showgirls and the magicians.”
“Now, don’t get crazy there,” he says with an intense frown. “When I said nothing could beat a football game, I wasn’t talking about magicians. Have you seen the Max and Alex show?” He mimes his head exploding. “It’s insane.”
“I know. I’ve seen their show twice. Hottest ticket in town. But that’s my point—we’re spoiled for choice, entertainment-wise, in Vegas.”
He takes a sip of his champagne, mulling over the problem. “Was it an issue when your dad was running the team?”
It’s a straight-up question, new problem or old, and not a suggestion that I lack something my dad had, and I appreciate that.
“Yeah, he grappled with it too. We discussed it when he was first taken ill.”
My throat catches as I think back to the last few days of his life. My father and I talked about everything—life and love and business—like he was determined to pass on his hard-won wisdom so I wouldn’t have to learn the same lessons twice.
“We talked a lot, actually,” I tell Crosby, speaking from the heart, where I keep Dad’s memory. “He shared his thoughts on running the team. How to be a good leader. How to inspire people. And when he ran down the things he’d been dealing with the last few years with the team, the competition
