Brie Sheridan has had her heart broken way too many times. Rhett Price is usually the culprit, but, this time, he might be the solution.
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Brooke 'Brie' Sheridan wouldn't necessa...
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RHETT
I'm not having the greatest night.
Even though I've been attending these fundraising galas since my early teenage years and know all about mingling, sometimes it becomes a bit draining to attempt to memorize all these names, all these faces, and how I'm supposed to address everyone and how to behave in front of them. Different people and representatives require different versions of me and, although that's to be expected, sometimes I catch myself wishing I could always be me instead of having to switch between personas.
There are many things I do for my ice hockey career, and it includes making sacrifices. I'm as much of a party guy as the next one, but there's only so much I can take when it comes to supposedly charity galas hosted by billionaire narcissists, and it only reminds me no person should have that much money. I don't care how hard they claim to have worked to get to the peak when there are so many people along the way they've screwed over and how many they continue to exploit; after all, no one can convince me there's such a thing as a self-made billionaire that deserves respect.
So, when my smile wavers and I barely stop myself from delivering a biting comment to someone I absolutely cannot afford to piss off, my parents decide to pull me aside and give me a reality check. You know, in case I've forgotten everything that is at stake and everything I'm risking losing by being a brat.
"I know you don't like these galas, but they're important for your future," Mom reminds me, fixing the collar of my pressed white shirt. I love her more than everything else on this planet, even more than hockey, but there's a side of me that finds the helicopter behavior a bit insufferable. I don't think she fully sees me as an adult and, even if I'll always be her baby in a way, I need to have some room to grow, and I can't do that with her infantilizing me at any opportunity she gets. "All eyes are on you, Rhett. These are very influential people and they have connections to the right companies and the right brands."
"I know, Mom," I mutter, stepping back once the scent of her rich perfume becomes unbearable. Whenever we attend these galas, she bathes in that thing, and it overpowers everything else, including my willingness to play the part of someone who actively enjoys and wants to be present. "I know. I'm just tired."
"All eyes are on you," Dad echoes, reaching out for a champagne flute from a stressed-looking waiter who walks past us in a rush, holding a tray by his shoulder. He gives my mom the flute. "Take a deep breath, go get some fresh air, and come back once you're feeling more relaxed. Breathe. Be yourself."
I scowl. These people don't want me to be myself; they want me to be Rhett Price, the future money-making machine, and they've made it crystal clear that the true version of me isn't adequate. It's what makes all of this so much more complicated, as I feel constantly on the brink of crumbling, terrified of saying the wrong thing or making the wrong move. It's like I'm walking over shattered glass without ever being allowed to take a break.
