Chapter 9
nine
. . .
Amelia
The boys are in a good mood as we pile into the seedy dive bar they selected for the night. This is my fourth road trip with the team, and whenever we have a night off, the guys inevitably end up in a bar.
The Grizzlies tend to prefer casual bars and pubs versus the swanky clubs the Colorado boys liked. I didn’t travel enough with the Aces as an intern to get a pulse on what they were into.
Robby and I are seated at a table with Patrice, the social media guru, and Vanessa, the logistics coordinator. Zac, Derek, and Trevor are shooting pool, but after spending all day with them, I don’t see the need to be attached at the hip during our down time.
Joaquin, the team’s videographer, approaches with a pitcher of beer and a stack of cups. “First round’s on Larsson,” he announces, and Vanessa goes red.
Sven’s her fiancé. They’re absolutely adorable together.
“I’m surprised you two aren’t canoodling in a corner,” Patrice teases her.
“There’s still time, don’t count her out yet,” Robby grins. He pours a beer for her, but she waves him off. “You’re not drinking?”
She shakes her head. “Not tonight.”
Patrice’s eyes narrow in thought. “You didn’t drink during the last road trip, either.”
“I’m pregnant,” Vanessa says, with a shrug.
Robby’s jaw drops. “You’re pregnant?”
She tenses. “Yes?”
To all of our surprise, he launches around the table and pulls her into a hug.
“Nessie! I’m so happy for you!” His eyes are squeezed shut, but I notice a tear slipping free. “You’re really doing it. You’re making your own family.”
“Yeah. Well…” Vanessa clears her throat. “I told Jacky, but not the rest of the guys yet. Sven doesn’t want a big announcement.”
“Okay, but what do you want?” Joaquin asks. “We could do a gender reveal and each of the guys hit a puck with pink or blue powder inside. I could put it on the team’s social media.”
“Have you thought about endorsements? I can see Sven pushing a high-end stroller,” Patrice adds.
Vanessa shakes her head. “I’m not ready to think of all that. I have six more months before I have to worry about it.”
“Those months pass by quicker than you think,” I warn her. “One minute, you’re worried about starting to show, and then two minutes later, you can’t zip your jeans anymore.”
“You have kids?” Joaquin asks.
“I was a surrogate for my brother and his husband.” Taking a sip of my beer, I shrug. “If you need advice or just want to talk about being pregnant, I’m happy to chat. I’m here for you.”
“Thanks, Amelia,” Vanessa says, her eyes bright. “I appreciate that. None of my friends have kids or even thought about it, and I don’t have any family. I’m a little out of my element.”
“We all are, at first.” I reach out and squeeze her hand. “You’re going to rock being a mom.”
Robby, still standing, comes around and hugs me, too. “I’m so fucking proud of you,” he murmurs in my ear.
We spent a lot of time together during the eighteen months he dated my brother, but after the break-up, we all went our separate ways.
Then, he started working for the Grizzlies two seasons ago, and I saw him when our teams played each other.
We grabbed coffee or had dinner when we were in the same city once or twice a year.
He’s a good guy, and just because things fizzled out with my brother doesn’t mean we can’t be friends. Especially now that we work together.
There’s a strict divide between players and staff.
Even now, the guys are separate from the rest of us.
A few of them are chatting up women, but the majority of them cluster together, chatting and drinking.
This isn’t an official team event, so attendance isn’t required.
Still, seventeen of the twenty-three players on this road trip are here at the bar, and most of the support staff is, too.
McKittrick is at a table with Larsson, Logan, and Gonzo, but his attention is on his whiskey. Even from across the room, I can tell he’s had a few.
“What’s his deal?” I ask Robby, nodding toward the team’s captain, who’s now swaying in his seat. “Does he typically get wasted the night before a game?”
My friend looks over his shoulder at the table, and then curses. “No. Definitely atypical.”
“Guess he’s taking the divorce pretty hard,” Patrice says.
“He’s married?” I can’t keep the incredulity out of my voice. That fucker stood there and watched me, and all the while he’s married to another woman…
“The divorce was finalized in the off-season,” Joaquin tells me. “His ex was a total see-you-next-Tuesday.” He hiccups and his cheeks flush as he covers his mouth with a wink. “I didn’t say that.”
“You’re not on camera,” Patrice says, patting his hand.
“No, only behind it.” He goes to drink his beer, but Robby pulls it away and shoves a bottle of water into his hand. “I don’t want this.”
“Too bad. Drink it anyway.” There’s a hint of steel in his voice.
“Ooh, yes Daddy,” Joaquin says, and all of us crack up, Robby most of all.
Our loud laughter draws the attention of the nearby tables. McKittrick looks up, his eyes narrowing on us.
On me.
A flare of heat rushes through me, warming me from the inside out. All of my nerves stand at attention, ready and waiting.
Fuck. Letting out a shallow breath, I push my chair back, the wood scraping the floor.
“I need some air,” I announce. “Be right back.”
Making my way through the crowd, I use the restroom and wash my hands. Staring at me in the mirror is a face I hardly recognize. My cheeks are flushed, my eyes bright and wild. And my hair—I don’t even know what’s going on with it.
Splashing some cool water on my face, I finger-comb my hair back into place. Satisfied I look presentable again, I open the bathroom door.
Only to run smack into a brick wall.
Wait, it’s not a wall. It’s a chest.
A very hard, muscular chest.
Jason McKittrick stares at me with confusion on his face. “What’re you doing in the men’s room?”
“This isn’t the men’s room.”
He scoffs. “‘Course it is.”
Taking his the elbow, I lead him from the cramped restroom. “Come on. Let’s get you some water.”
“I‘m fine. Not drunk,” he insists.
“I didn’t say you were.”
Except he’s weaving on his feet, his gait unsteady. He’s two hundred twenty pounds of solid muscle. There’s no way I can catch him when he undoubtedly falls.
Robby and Joaquin spot us, looking between themselves, before they both spring to their feet and rush over to us.
“Come on, Cap,” Joaquin says, diving under one of McKittrick’s arms. “We’ve got you.”
“Just needa piss,” the hockey player slurs.
Chuckling under his breath, Robby takes my place, swooping in to support his other side. “We’ll help you.”
“Don’t need you to hold my dick.”
“Wasn’t offering to,” Robby snaps back.
Together, the three of them lumber toward the men’s room at the back of the hallway. When they come out a good five minutes later, I offer the bottle of water I grabbed from the bar.
“Drink this,” I instruct, and McKittrick blinks at me blearily. With a sigh, I wrench open the top and hand it back to him.
With a shaky hand, he takes the bottle and slurps at it, spilling some down his shirt.
“Shit,” Joaquin breathes. “He’s a mess.”
“Coach is already back at the hotel,” Robby says. “How’re we going to get him past the front door?”
“The service entrance.” It’s the only way Coach—or by the reporters who hang out in the hotel bar—won’t see him.
“So, you’re volunteering?” he asks.
Making a face, I sigh. “If I have to.”
“I’ll settle the tab,” Joaquin offers.
“Thanks, man.” Robby offers him a fist-bump.
He disappears, and I slide myself onto McKittrick’s right side again. Joaquin returns a few moments later with my purse, and all three of our jackets. Given the heat radiating off the hockey player, I doubt I’ll need it.
Luckily, the hotel is only two blocks away—no need for a ride-share.
“Do you want to tell me what this is about?” Robby asks as we shuffle along the street.
“’S nothing,” McKittrick slurs. “I’m fine.”
“You sure look fine,” I snark at him.
He scowls. “You look fine.” But he sings the word, drawing it out. If his eyes weren’t half-closed, I’d say he was leering, but he looks constipated more than anything.
Robby snickers. “He’ll regret this.”
“Hopefully, he won’t remember it.”
Our progress is slow but steady. The hotel security guard laughs as we make our way to the service entrance, but they let us through. I punch the elevator for the seventh floor.
“Where’s his key?” I ask. McKittrick is even more out of it, staring off into space without a care in the world.
Robby shrugs. “Probably his wallet.”
“Okay, so get it.”
His eyebrows go up. “You think he wants a gay guy putting a hand into his pocket?”
“He’s not that insecure.” But I shift and shove my hand into the front pocket of his pants, pulling out his wallet. There’s some cash, a half dozen cards, and a condom tucked inside, but no room key.
I blow out a breath. “Fine. Take him to my room.”
“You sure about that?” Doubt is written clear across his face. “If it gets out…”
“Well, it’s your room or mine. Either way, our reputation is shit.” I’ve never looked twice at a player. Hell, I’ve never even looked once. And somehow, this asshole has me risking my job for—what? A peep show?
“We’ll get him settled in your room, and then you can bunk with me,” Robby offers. “I have two fulls in my room.”
“Sounds good.” We lumber up to the eighth floor, and I scan my key, gaining entry to the small hotel room.
Dumping McKittrick unceremoniously on the bed, Robby takes off his shoes while I pack a bag with the essentials I’ll need for an overnight stay.
“Ready to go?” he asks.
“Don’t go,” the hockey player slurs. “Don’t wanna be alone.”
Glancing at Robby, I ask a silent question, and he shrugs.
“In for a penny, in for a pound,” he says.
With a sigh, I sink onto the armchair. “Okay. I’ll stay.”
My friend bustles around the room, procuring another water bottle and some Advil. He stops and kisses my forehead.
“You’re a good egg, Meels,” he says, before he leaves.
McKittrick thrashes in the bed. I make my way over and run my hand through his hair, letting the soft strands sift through my fingers.
He whines, a needy noise deep in the back of his throat. I start to pull away, and his big hand wraps around my wrist, his grip firm.
“Don’t,” he says, his eyes closed. “Don’t stop.”
I run my finger through his hair again and again, scratching at the back of his scalp, fluffing the strands of hair, massaging his head until he drifts off.
When he lets out a snore, I step back, and when he doesn’t jerk, I slowly back away and return to the armchair.
Hopefully, when he wakes up, he won’t remember any of this.