Owned by the rink reaper

Elio’s POV. Why am I even here? That was the question I asked myself as I stood in the middle of The Gavel, my heart racing with an eagerness to cancel my appointment and return to my crib. I glanced at my watch for the fourth time. It was nearly midnight. If I could just find Arnold, deliver a "congrats on not dying on the ice," and escape back to my apartment, I could still finish my draft by midnight. But I promised him I’d show up, and only that promise made me rooted to the floor, awaiting the person he said would come pick me. But standing in the middle of the "hottest bar in LA" with a laptop bag made me feel like a penguin in a tuxedo at a beach party. "Careful, Elio. You’ll wrinkle that forehead if you keep scowling at the furniture." My heart sank at the spot, fear gripping me at the mention of my name, but as soon as the voice registered, my fear vanished, replaced with disgust and anger. I know that raspy voice too well, I thought. I couldn’t see his face as we were cloaked by the dark tones of the bar, but that voice, that silhouette…it was enough to recognize him. Rowan Moonstone walked like he commanded every square meter of the earth, with a voice that perfectly complemented his annoyingly cocky aura. "Rowan," I said, finally lifting my gaze. Rowan looked disgusting as he stepped into the light. No, not literally. Literally, he looked like he’d been photoshopped into existence from a sports magazine. His dark hair was gelled perfectly, not a strand out of place, save for the two strays on his temple—which was a signature look anyway. His jawline could have cut glass, and he was leaning against a pillar with a glass filled with something that he made look like the most interesting drink in the world. "The one and only," he smirked, his eyes dancing with a light that made me want to hit him with my jotter. He pushed off the pillar and strolled into my space, ignoring every boundary I’d ever tried to set since high school. I wish I could smack that smirk off his face, I thought with disgust. "What’s in the bag? More hit pieces about my 'erratic' playing style? Or did you just bring your diary to record how much you missed me?" "It’s my laptop, Rowan. For work.” I fired back, then I added: “You know what that is, right? The thing people do when they aren't 'resting' because their daddy told them they’ve had enough ice time for one season?" I expected him to flinch. I wanted it to hit him deep and get defensive about his father banning him from playing on the team. Instead, Rowan just let out a soft chuckle as if he was rather delighted. He stepped closer, so close I could smell the faint, crisp scent of winter air and scotch clinging to him. Well look at that," he murmured, looking down at me like I was the most entertaining thing he'd seen all night. "Yet I thought I wouldn’t miss that espresso shot of pure hatred. How adorable." "I am not 'adorable,' I am a professional journalist," I snapped, my face heating up. "And I don't hate you. Hate is an active emotion. I find you… statistically irrelevant." Rowan’s grin widened, flashing teeth that looked just a little too sharp under the bar lights. He reached out, his fingers grazing the strap of my laptop bag. I froze. "Statistically irrelevant? Ouch." He sounded like he was enjoying himself. "Is that why you always analyzed all my games with so much spite?" "I suppose I’m just very good at my job,” I replied dryly. "Indeed." He winked. Ignoring his theatrics, I spoke sharply, "Lead the way, Rowan.” The Gavel was more interesting than I’d expected. On the outside, it seemed like a small, bubbly bar. Only when you step in do you realize the various floors and their respective activities. I guess it did live up to its hype after all. We reached the top floor, and the "Reaper’s Den"—the private lounge reserved for the team—came into view. The energy here was different; it was the inner circle of the Rink Reapers, and they were celebrating like they owned the city. Arnold was the first to notice us. He dropped a bottle of expensive champagne onto a sofa and lunged forward, catching me in a bone-crushing hug. "El! You actually showed up!" he shouted over the music, reeking of some expensive beer I couldn’t name. "I promised, didn't I?" I managed to wheeze out as he released me. I smoothed my coat, trying to regain some dignity. I turned to the rest of the guys—Henry, Miller, and the others I’d known since they were rookies. "Great game, guys." I went around the circle, shaking hands and offering genuine praise. They were a powerhouse this year, and despite my cynicism, I respected their determination on the rink. "And what about me?" The voice came from behind me sounding slightly annoyed. Annoyance flared in me. Rowan was leaning against the railing of the bar, his arms crossed over his broad chest. "No congratulations for me? You’re being awfully petty, Elio." "I congratulated the people who actually played, Rowan." The guys chuckled, enjoying our banter. Rowan just pushed off the bar and sauntered into my line of sight, his permanent, infuriating smirk in place. "Ouch. Still so prickly, Elio. You’re telling me my presence didn't inspire the win? I was rooting for them and prayed in every single language I could speak!” "I'm sure the team was deeply moved by the way you adjusted your tie while they were taking hits against the boards," I said, my voice dry. "I congratulate efforts, Rowan. Not heirs who watch from the sidelines because they’re too precious to risk a scratch." Rowan’s eyes glinted, still. He wasn't offended; he looked like he was rather pleased and that got on my nerves. "He loves me," Rowan announced to the room, throwing an arm over Henry’s shoulder. "He’s just shy and big words to hide the fact that he has my jersey tucked under his pillow." "In your dreams, Moonstone," I snapped, the heat rising to my cheeks as the team laughed. I couldn't take it anymore. The noise, the smell of Rowan’s strangely magnetic scent, and that unbothered smirk were too much. I turned on my heel and headed for the glass doors leading to the balcony. The prick! How could he be so carefree and cocky about everything? Did the world revolve around him? The night air of the city hit me, cold and refreshing. I gripped the railing, staring out at the lights of LA, trying to slow my heart rate. "Hey," Arnold’s voice was soft as he stepped out behind me. He leaned against the railing, looking concerned. "Don't let him get under your skin, El. You know how Rowan is. He picks on the people he finds... interesting." "He’s a narcissist, Arnold. I don't know how you stand being on the rink with him." "He’s a Reaper," Arnold shrugged. "We’re family, even the annoying ones." Before I could respond, my phone vibrated in my pocket. I frowned, seeing the caller ID. It was my Editor-in-Chief. "I have to take this," I muttered. I stepped to the far end of the balcony and answered. "Hello?" "Elio! Tell me you're at The Gavel. Tell me you're breathing the same air as the Rink Reapers right now," my boss's voice barked through the line, sounding breathless. "I'm here, but I'm just about to leave—" "Don't you dare. Look, the lead sports columnist just quit, and the board wants a 'Deep Dive' series. Total access. Practices, their trips—everything." My stomach dropped, unsure where this was going. "What does this have to do with me?" Ignoring my question, Leah continued, "Management wants the world to see the Reapers are still a powerhouse, even with the Moonstone drama. And to answer your question, it has to be you. Your high school 'history' with the stars makes you the only one who can handle them." “No,” I responded firmly, “I can’t.” It was a no-no. The thought of being 24/7 with Rowan made my skin crawl. I’d sooner kill myself. “Elio, I swear to f**k!” She groaned. “If I had someone more capable, I wouldn’t be on this call with you. I’m well aware I’m begging you for a favor, please don’t make this hard.” I was torn between what to do. Leah was right—she never asked me for favors unless she had no choice. My eyes caught something near the glass. Inside, Rowan was watching me. He wasn't laughing anymore. He was perfectly still, his fingers lazily tracing the rim of his glass as he watched me through the window. Realization hit me square in the face. He knew. "Elio? You still there?" "I'm here," I whispered, my gaze locked with Rowan’s. "I’m here." “Well…?” I was helpless in the situation. I had no choice, so I answered with a deep breath. “I’ll do it.”