Those three words slid over me like a balm, soothing the ache in my chest that had been there since I’d left Charleston days ago. I’d never minded being away for extended times before, but I’d also never had someone to go home to like I did now.
We hung up and I walked out of my suite to see two women with clipboards. “I’m ready.”
“Perfect,” one said, barely looking up from her board. “Mr. MacDhuibh, we’re ready for you right across the hall. I’m Sherry, and I’ll be here to take care of whatever you need.” She looked up and nodded. “It fits well.”
“Should be, since ye had it made custom,” I said with a slight smirk, fingering the tie I’d negotiated for the shoot—a gift from Annabelle.
“It looks phenomenal,” the other woman said, her voice leaving the sphere of professional.
“Vanessa,” Sherry chastised.
“Sorry, I’m just a really big fan,” Vanessa said.
“Not a problem,” I said with a smile that was kind, but wouldn’t encourage the lass.
They led me across the hall into another suite that had been transformed for the photo shoot. The backdrop was simple and white, and ample staff scurried about, getting everything perfect.
“Mr. MacDhuibh,” the photographer greeted me. “It’s a pleasure to work with you. We’ll get you out of here as soon as possible. We know you have a game tonight.”
“Thank ye.” It was the last time I spoke for a while.
They took pictures for the next ten minutes. Sitting, standing, leaning against the wall. All of it. Then they brought in the women. Models flanked me, all wearing barely-there gowns in bright, solid colors.
They were professional, and the shoot was easy.
“Okay, now for the wardrobe change,” the photographer ordered with a snap of his fingers. “Mr. MacDhuibh, you look great. I know we’re running behind schedule, but once we have this next series we should be done. The marketing director wanted both the classic shots and a few sexier ones.”
“No problem,” I said with a nod, then guzzled a bottle of water. I nearly spit it out when the models came back, all in various colors and styles of lingerie.
Bloody hell. I’d told Annabelle that I wouldn’t be half naked, but I hadn’t thought about the models. They were more like three-quarters naked.
A blonde shot me a look that told me she’d be up for some bedroom time, and I quickly looked away. Last year, I would have taken her up on it, but the truth was I had zero interest now.
First, I would never hurt Annabelle like that. There wasn’t an orgasm in this world that was worth losing her.
But second, I wasn’t even tempted. It was a revelation, but the models weren’t even appealing to me. They lacked Annabelle’s lush curves. Their smiles were plastic and even their laughs were fake.
Annabelle was genuine in every emotion. She was real in every way. She was the kind of woman to build a life with. The kind to stand by you in the sun and the storm.
I grinned as the models flanked me on either side because this was about to be ridiculously easy. There was no sexual tension, no sly glances, no arousal. I may as well have been taking pictures with my teammates.
And speak of the devil, Logan and Cannon stood off to the side, both looking rather impatient.
“That’s great,” the photographer praised the girls who posed. “Connell, let’s go a little more serious? Maybe a smolder?”
“You should be doing this,” I teased Logan, who had been born with the face for this shit.
“Hell no. Never happening.” Logan shook his head.
“Smolder faster, MacDhuibh. We have a game to get to, just in case you’ve forgotten.” Cannon ordered dryly.
“Mr. MacDhuibh, the magazine reporter is here for his interview, too,” Sherry said with a grimace. “I’m so sorry that we’re behind schedule.”
“Jesus, it’s not like he needs his brain for the shoot. Just have him answer the fucking questions now,” Cannon snapped.
Sherry took one look at the tattoos that crept up his neck and stepped back.
“That would be fine, Sherry. Would you mind bringing him in?” I asked.
Logan shook his head at Cannon. “Man, stop scaring off the women. No wonder you’re single.”
“Women who are scared off by some ink and a growl aren’t worth my time. And I’m not after a relationship like you and the Scot. I’m quite happy rotating my bed partners.”
A brunette cocked her eyebrow at Cannon with a smile.
He gave her a once-over and nodded.
I sighed and looked back at the camera for more instructions from the photographer. I didn’t really give a fuck that Cannon slept with whomever he wanted. What I cared about was the uneasy feeling that it was just a symptom of a much larger, self-destructive pattern. Cannon wasn’t just the fastest skater on our team—or the NHL—he was a friend. A friend who would bring everyone down around him if that lit fuse in his eyes ever reached detonation.