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.

          Dad used to play professionally, too, so I more than understand the pressure I'm under, especially when it's in my blood and everyone expects me to carry on the family legacy. I want to carry on the family legacy and it's been my dream since I was a child, even if there was a point in time when I found myself questioning whether it was what I actually wanted for myself or if I had been conditioned into making it my dream.

          I eventually realized I genuinely enjoy playing—the adrenaline rushing through my veins as soon as I get on the rink, the steady pressure of the stick against my gloves, the thrill of carrying my team to victory—and want nothing more than to go pro, but those remnants of doubt still linger sometimes. Is it really my dream? Or is it someone else's?

          I've been informed that professional hockey players are expected to be motivated, dedicated, and focused. That means no distractions, and it means being able to prove they can stay committed to things that matter; with graduation approaching, the pressure to land a professional contract also rises, and my parents have since decided I need to get my head in the game before it's too late.

          That means I can no longer present myself as what they call a womanizer and, in the words of my sister Lorelai, a manwhore. They think it makes me look immature and unable to take anything seriously (like balancing women and knowing who's friends with whom to avoid unnecessary drama isn't serious; like, come on, guys, give me a break here), as I'm apparently not allowed to have fun while I still can. They don't necessarily want me to become a family man overnight, graduating and getting engaged to someone immediately after, but they want brands to be able to trust I won't do anything to tarnish my image.

          Better yet, they need to know I won't do anything stupid and impulsive to tarnish my image and, therefore, make them look bad by association. With all the money these brands cash in every day, you'd expect them to be able to make those scandals go away with the help of their PR and HR teams (and they do, in occasion, particularly with gender discrimination lawsuits that mysteriously go missing as soon as someone threatens to go public with them), but somehow that wouldn't apply to me.

          So, here we are. Rhett Price needs to prove he can be serious about something, and the only way they think I can do that is by landing myself in a serious relationship—something I don't want, and something I'm not ready for. I'd much rather prove my worth through alternative means, like volunteering or teaching kids, but Brie Sheridan walked right back into my life and I was reminded of the absolute fool I've been.

          I don't want to force her into this. I don't want her to pretend to tolerate me to avoid mutually assured destruction, not when I know she's still hurt over what happened years ago, and it felt like the perfect opportunity to be a man and apologize. Not just that—I want things to be okay once and for all. She deserves that much, so why aren't those the good actions that will matter to my parents? Why does it have to be a relationship?

          "I'll probably take you up on that offer," I say. They both nod in approval, and something warm and fuzzy nestles in my chest, ever the addict to people pleasing. All that time I have to spend pretending to not care about the weight of the entire world's opinion of me and the value of my character is time poorly spent. "I'm sure Lorelai has managed to salvage the conversation."

          Mom sighs, running her fingers through my hair to tousle it in a more appropriate way. "To think your sister was supposed to be in D.C. and she's here tonight . . ."

          The warm and fuzzy feeling is swiftly replaced by cold, hard guilt, and I choose that moment to finally step away and get the fresh air everyone thinks I need before I snap at someone. Lorelai is back in Bennington for me, neglecting her more pressing responsibilities in D.C., and I don't appreciate knowing people think of me as a big enough lost cause to justify putting their lives on hold to take care of me.

          You make one mistake during the summer, after years and years of being nearly picture perfect, and suddenly no one trusts you anymore. Very fair, thank you, guys.

           As I stride away from my parents and loosen the collar of my shirt before my body overheats and I start hyperventilating, black spots filling the corners of my vision, all I can think about is getting out of here. Though I can't physically leave—the most I can do is step outside and stay in the garden or stand on a tall balcony—the intense need to escape is stronger than anything else for once, including my desire to land a good brand sponsorship.

           I'd rather enter a state of spontaneous human combustion than to learn I've disappointed someone whose opinion I value, particularly my parents, but sometimes I feel like I can't even breathe around them without warning signs blaring like sirens, like I can't do anything right. I know how important these events are and how even more important it is to present myself as the ideal candidate—especially with Lorelai using her diplomacy skills to help me out of sticky situations—but the aching pressure to be perfect all the time, in every social context I find myself in is eating me alive. Realistically, it's impossible to achieve such a standard, but it has never stopped me from trying, and I have to face the consequences of it now.

          It does me no good to be stuck inside my own mind. I long for the day when the season will finally start and I can finally stop thinking about anything that isn't hockey, but it's still half a month away, so there's half a month of being forced to deal with shit I don't want to deal with ahead of me. Things would be so much easier if I was allowed to fail and to make mistakes every now and then, but there's no room for anything less than perfection in my world, and I can't afford to screw things up now.

          Like everyone reminds me almost on an hourly basis, I'm criminally close to getting everything I've ever wanted out of life, and the only person standing in my way is me. The itch to sabotage my own happiness is scratching at my brain incessantly, urging me to act on it, clear evidence I cannot be left to my own devices for too long, and smarter people would probably mark me as a danger to myself. Not necessarily a danger to others, no, unless you count secondhand embarrassment as an act of indirect violence.

          As I make my way through the crowd, hanging my head low so I won't be dragged into any conversations I have no desire to get involved in, I focus on steadying my breathing. A few summers ago, I trained in scuba diving, so I know all about breathing techniques to use in extreme situations, but, regrettably, they don't tend to be that useful whenever my anxiety hits me like a freight train. It's strange, really; whenever that anxiety gets particularly bad and I feel like I'm dying, like there's not enough air in my lungs, the techniques that should help do next to nothing.

          Then, I finally find a reason to have all the oxygen sucked out of my body.

          Standing by the long tables displaying multiple platters of appetizers made with ingredients I don't want to know about, Brie looks like an angel on earth. Her auburn hair cascades down her back, leaving her collarbones uncovered, and the way her blue cocktail dress accentuates her delicate figure in the best way possible should be indecent. Blood rushes to my head—thankfully not anywhere inappropriate, as this is still a public setting and I don't want to get arrested thanks to my conduct—and my heart races like a jackhammer, drilling against my chest, but I know it's not the anxiety and the nerves speaking.

          This time, it's all her.

          My lips curve into a smile the moment our eyes meet, before I can stop my facial muscles from reacting to the mere sight of her, but her expression remains indecipherable. There's some hesitation there, especially in the way she glances back over her shoulder, like she either suspects I'm smiling at someone behind her or like she's looking for a way out, but at least she doesn't run away or pretend to not have seen me. It's more than she has done since we came to college, and it's certainly a lot more than I deserve.

          "Don't you look dashing," she comments when I stop in front of her, failing to completely hide the slight exhaustion in her voice behind the snark. For her sake—and mine—I decide to indulge her and pretend to be oblivious to it. "I should have known you'd be attending this gala. It suits you."

          "Pretentious, rich, and bland," I retort, with a chuckle. My heart rate slowly returns to normal rhythms, even though she's standing so close to me I can feel the warmth of her body without touching her. She's sunshine personified, yet she routinely chases after insecure guys who will never hesitate to dim her light because they're too scared to let her overshadow them. I don't know why she does it and it's none of my business, but the self-absorbed part of me thinks I might have influenced it a bit—or, hell, a lot. "Sounds like me, all right."

          Brie cracks the ghost of a smile. "That's not what I meant. You've always looked right at home during these events. It's like you're a natural."

          "I thought you were the one who actively enjoyed being here. What happened to all the schmoozing?"

          "Well . . ." Her shoulders droop as she deflates, moving a rebel lock of hair away from her face, and I have to clench my hands into fists to stop myself from doing it for her. She looks so fucking perfect all dressed up, but she hardly even needs to try; I've seen her without any makeup on, hair all disheveled, and she's still effortlessly beautiful then. "Nancy had to physically restrain me before I started calling people elitist assholes when I'm in desperate need of a gig, so I thought it was best to take a breather before I ruin my future even further. There are so many brands here and I've worked in sports photography before, so I thought I could handle it, but there's so much lingo I don't understand, and these people keep looking at me like I'm stupid." She scowls. "I'd rather have them think I'm stupid than think I'm a little girl with a camera who's in way over her head trying to fit in with all the rich, successful people. I just want them to see me as an equal, you know?"

          I want to tell her I do understand what that feels like—how you can mold yourself and force yourself to fit all these nearly impossible standards of perfection and what you think people want you to be like, and how it still never feels enough. I understand what it's like to feel like your best isn't and won't ever be enough, regardless of how hard you push yourself.

          I don't tell her that. I fear she'll think I'm trying to relate to how she's feeling because I have a secret agenda, because I'm trying to make her fall for my charms by showing some vulnerability or whatever, and neither of us are ready for that conversation. My hope is that someday we'll get there, being able to share honest thoughts with each other without fear of judgment or misinterpretation, but I get why she keeps her guard up around me. Even when she tries to not let it show, I can still see her glass walls held up so high I can't break through them.

          My heart aches for her, though. For years, I watched her struggle with fitting in among silver spooned kids and mean families, and it's terrible how people here look down on others the second they find out they get financial aid or are attending college on a scholarship. Not everyone has the privilege of having their lives sorted out for them since the moment they come out of the womb and I know Brie has had to work much harder than most people I know to get a tenth of the praise they get for doing the bare minimum.

           However, I've also seen her work a crowd and mingle like it's what she has been born to do whenever she doesn't have a camera in her hands or isn't hiding behind the lens. She knows what she's doing, reminding me of Lorelai, and I envy her a little bit; even if both she and I are great at pretending to enjoy being around these people and know we have to do whatever it takes to succeed, she's always been better at it than I have. She's the natural at it, not me, and I'm always in awe of how easy she makes it look.

          "You're here to do what you need to do, and there's no shame in that," I tell her, moving to stand next to her instead. She eyes me carefully before staring back at the groups of people gathering around the large ballroom. "I know how horrible some of these people can be, but it speaks volumes about their character, not yours. You're far kinder, more talented, and more likely to succeed than them. At least you work hard to achieve your dreams instead of being handed everything on a silver platter."

          "Sure, but sometimes I wish it was a bit easier. I wish it was as easy for me as it is for them, but I can't afford the luxury of screwing up. I don't have my family's money to protect me." Brie sighs. Our arms nearly brush. "I sound so spoiled right now. I'm sorry. I don't even know why I'm telling you all of this."

          "For what it's worth, I'm supposed to be schmoozing too, and I'm so great at it my parents actually had to ask me to step back and let Lorelai handle it. Looks like we both needed a break from trying to impress people we don't really care about."

          I leave it hanging in the air, hoping she'll get where I'm trying to get. She's the only person I want to impress right now—she's the only one I want to hear say she'll give me a chance to prove to her I've changed, and not just because of my family's demands.

          I don't think I've succeeded, as she stays quiet for so long I almost think she's decided to retreat back inside her little I-Hate-Rhett-Price bubble, but then she downs her champagne before I can open my mouth. When I do, she turns to face me so quickly the ends of her hair slap me right across the chest.

          "So, on the off chance I accept your offer, what's in it for me? And how can I be certain you won't break my heart again?"

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this is a rhett price stan account! i don't care!!!