17. victoria
SEVENTEEN
victoria
“ W anna dance, honey?” a large biker asks me from the bar. He wears a red bandana like a sweatband and has on a sleeveless leather vest to show off his beefy arms.
“No, thanks, I’m tired,” I say, turning my back to him and hoping he’ll get the hint and move on.
Leo swoops in like a secret service agent and parks next to me. “Need some company?” he asks before giving the biker a dirty look.
“Sure. But for the record, you don’t need to hover over me. You think he’s going to throw me over his shoulder like I’m pirate booty?”
“Oh, he definitely wants some booty tonight,” Leo says, nodding. “And it will not be yours.”
I smile. “According to you, I’m good at knee-to-stomach kicks. I can take him,” I assure Leo, sliding over the basket of chicken wings Jaz ordered for the table. I’m so tired of eating kale salad and protein smoothies that I grab a chicken wing to satisfy my ravenous stomach. Shania Twain’s “Man! I Feel Like a Woman” starts blasting, and for a moment, I feel empowered enough to trade my jeans for cutoffs and boots.
“You might not want to eat that,” Leo warns.
“Why not?” I say, taking a big bite anyway.
Leo lifts a shoulder. “I was just trying to be a friend and warn you in advance.”
Suddenly my mouth flames with heat like I just swallowed a lit torch.
“Oh my gosh,” I choke-gasp. “It’s so . . .”
“Hot?” he finishes for me, then slides a glass of milk toward me. “I tried to warn you.”
I grab the drink and down it in one go, then reach for the water pitcher to put out my flaming lips. Without shame, I chug it straight from the pitcher because my mouth feels like it’s hosting a bonfire.
“They need a warning label on these wings,” I choke out.
“That’s the Death by a Thousand Wings sauce,” he says, as if proving a point.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask between gulps of water.
“I tried to, but you didn’t listen. Sherrie always puts a glass of milk on the table for that reason. It cools your mouth better than water.”
Sweat prickles on my chest, probably from the fiery sauce currently waging war on my insides—or maybe from the way Leo keeps watching me with those distant, calculating eyes, the ones that tell me he’s trying to be my friend and only my friend. Honestly, I hate it.
“If you want to go out and dance, I’ll save your seatand some wings for you,” Leo offers, leaning back, giving me permission to choose my dance partner. Just another way he’s reminding me this is not a date.
“And leave you at the table scowling?”
“Yeah, well, I like to scare small children,” Leo deadpans. When I look over, his mouth is hitched up slightly. I love it when I can make him smile just a little. It feels like a tiny victory and another mark for the smile tally.
“Okay, Mr. Grumpy, why don’t you go out there and dance with your teammates, then?” I nod toward the dance floor, where most of the team is trying—and failing—to do a new line dance.
“I don’t dance. You know that,” he says, refilling his water, avoiding looking at me.
And I do. Too well. The words sting, pulling me back to the night I made him slow dance with me under the stars. He stepped on my toes more than once, but the way he held me, the way he made me feel like nothing could ever hurt me—it didn’t matter.
The music ends, and the team streams back to the table, flushed and laughing from dancing. A pitcher of water and another round of wings arrive, along with a bucket of popcorn, courtesy of Sherrie.
“Missed you out there, Ego,” Vale says. He’s back in town since taking a leave from the Crushers to play for an NHL team in Tampa. He visits Sloan whenever he can, which is a lot, judging by how often I see him.
“So did a special waitress,” Rourke adds with a sly look.
My gaze flicks to Leo, whose eyes shift to a blonde in the corner, clearly watching him with hooded eyes. A surge of jealousy shoots through me.
“I only dance when I lose trivia night. She knows that,” Leo says. “And I pick my partner.”
The way she’s eyeing him from across the barroom, it most definitely seems like she wants to be Leo’s partner—for more than dancing.
“Speaking of trivia, we haven’t played tonight,” Rourke says, grabbing a box from the bar labeled Trivia Night Fun . “Who’s game?”
Lucian leans forward. “Depends. What’s the bet?”
Sloan leans over to me. “Trivia night is different every time. The box changes rules for winners and losers to make sure every game is unique.”
Rourke grins as he reaches a hand into the box and pulls out a slip of paper. “Tonight, the winner gets to kiss someone at the table.”
The guys erupt into cheering—all except Leo, who looks like he’s about to flip the table.
“Not happening,” Leo growls, pinning Rourke with a glare.
“Why not?” Rourke teases. “You didn’t mind when you won a few months ago.”
My gaze snaps to Leo. I don’t want to know who he kissed, but my traitorous brain starts guessing anyway. Given the blonde waitress’s not-so-subtle staring, I’d bet my skates it was her.
“It’s just a kiss, Leo,” Rourke fires back with a grin. “For fun. We’re not asking anyone to marry us.”
Leo narrows his eyes. “Maybe Victoria doesn’t want to kiss someone like you.” His tone is icy.
I know he’s just trying to look out for me, but it only fuels my irritation. He danced with that waitress, kissed someone else, and now he’s playing knight in shining armor? I came here for fun, not to feel like a delicate flower under his constant watch.
“I’ll do it,” I say before I can second-guess this. I need more fun in my life.
“We have our first player!” Sloan announces, grabbing the popcorn bucket and taking a handful.
Leo’s head snaps toward me, his eyes flashing. “You will not. ”
“It’s just a game,” I say, arching an eyebrow, daring him to argue. “And it doesn’t break any rules, does it, friend ?”
The crease in his brow deepens, which feels terrific. Sure, I promised not to hook up with his teammates, but playing a silly game? That’s my decision, not his. I’ll take his anger over his indifference any day.
Leo’s voice drops. “ Fine. Just remember what happened with those wings.” His words are laced with a warning. “You don’t listen, you get burned.”
“Maybe I like to play with fire,” I say with a smile, leaning back in my chair, knowing full well this game we’re playing. He doesn’t get to dictate my fun. Besides, there’s only one person I’d actually want to kiss at this table, and right now, he looks like he’d rather drink hot wing sauce than kiss me.
I turn to Rourke, my confidence ballooning. “I’m in—despite what Mr. No Fun over here thinks.” I hitch my thumb at Leo.
Leo leans across the table, his eyes locked on mine like twin lasers. “Did you stop to think about what happens to the loser?”
“You had to dance when you lost a game,” I reply, my confidence wavering. “That’s not so bad.”
“Rules change every game,” Leo says. “They draw it from the trivia box.”
Rourke pulls out the loser’s punishment. “Tonight, the loser drinks a shot.”
A ripple of panic zips through me. “One shot? I can handle that,” I say with fake confidence.
“That’s for every question you get wrong,” Rourke clarifies.
My smile wavers. “Wait, every question? How many questions are there?”
“Five,” Jaxon answers.
Uh-oh.
My stomach flip-flops.
Leo’s frown darkens, and I can practically feel his disapproval from across the table. He knows I can’t handle alcohol—not shots, not anything. Back when we were together, he’d always keep an eye on me if I even had one glass because he knew I had a weak stomach. One drink left me feeling queasy and lightheaded, so I usually avoided it.
Did I really just sign up for this? Yes, I did.
Do I already regret it? Yes, yes I do. But my competitive side won’t let me quit now.
I force a smile, trying to ease the tension. “Good thing I have my safety buddy here!” I nudge Leo with my foot under the table, but he doesn’t even crack a smile.
Jaxon looks down the table. “So who wants to compete against?—”
“I will,” Leo cuts him off.
Every eye turns to us as Leo stares at me across the table. The table stills as Jaz turns to her sister. “Pass the popcorn. This is going to be the best trivia game ever.”
We both know why he’s doing this. He’s stepping in to save me from kissing anyone else, and the realization makes me feel like I can hardly breathe.
If I lose, I’ll have to endure the ultimate punishment: watching him choose someone else.
And if I win?
Well, that’s the real problem. Because the one person I’d want to kiss is sitting across from me, glaring, like this is exactly what he’s trying to prevent.