17. Brayden #2
Adam limped away, tossing one last “fucking cunt” over his shoulder.
Gavin’s fist came out of nowhere, catching him clean in the jaw.
The cops looked the other way like they hadn’t seen a damn thing.
“I think we told you to leave, sir,” the older one muttered, heading back to his cruiser.
We ended up at O’Grady’s with the rest of the team because Myla insisted we weren’t letting that asshole ruin the night. The bar was loud as hell—music, beer, highlights replaying on the TVs. The guys were already half drunk, reliving every goal like it hadn’t happened an hour ago.
Myla sat in a corner booth at first, small and quiet in a room full of noise. Gavin slid in beside her with a water, and I watched them from across the bar. He wasn’t being Captain Hayes. He wasn’t being the arrogant prick I’d fought with half the season.
He was just… there. Present. Gentle in a way I didn’t think he had in him.
I didn’t know what to do with that.
I watched him loop an arm over the back of the booth to keep puck bunnies from swooping in.
Watched Myla crack a real smile as he made her laugh.
Watched him pull the “girlfriend” routine on a couple of girls I knew he’d hooked up with before—kissing Myla in a way that was supposed to be fake but sure as hell didn’t look fake from where I was standing.
My stomach twisted. Protective older brother mode flared, wanting to drag her home and lock her in her room like she was twelve again.
But she wasn’t a kid anymore. She was a woman who’d fought her way through more shit than most people ever would. And Gavin? He’d just gone to war with me for her in a parking garage without blinking.
I didn’t trust him. Not fully. But I trusted what he’d done tonight.
Myla started making her way through the crowd toward me, and I could tell from the way she squared her shoulders that she was bracing for a fight. Great. Big Brother Buzzkill, reporting for duty.
“How’s it going, bro?” she asked when she reached me.
I sucked air through my front teeth, long and dramatic.
Yeah, I was a few beers in. My head had that familiar loose buzz, and my knee was starting to ache now that the game high was wearing off.
I jerked my chin toward where Gavin was talking to a couple guys, like the fucking golden boy he was.
“He’s charming, but he’ll end up showing his true colors eventually, My. ”
Her nose crinkled just the tiniest bit—worried, not impressed. She always got that look when she thought I was on edge.
She was right.
I was already a few beers deep, eyes probably a little glassy, temper riding too close to the surface. Classic me—one good shove away from saying something I’d regret. If she didn’t haul my ass out of here soon, I’d end up chirping my captain in front of half the team and the entire bar staff.
“He’s just being friendly,” she said gently.
Friendly. Right. I’d seen the way he’d kissed her to get those puck bunnies off his back. I knew what that looked like. I’d pulled the same move enough times in my life to recognize it on sight.
The bartender walked past, and I reached for the empty bottle in my hand. I slammed it down on the bartop harder than I meant to. The glass clanked, and a few heads turned.
“Scotch neat,” I howled to the bartender before turning back toward Myla. My voice came out sharper than intended, but I didn’t take it back. “I saw him kiss you. I wasn’t born fucking yesterday.”
Her expression said it all. Ugh. Of course he did. I could practically hear the thought even if she didn’t say it out loud.
“Bray, he was trying to get those chicks to leave him alone. I was helping. It’s not like I’m in the bathroom blowing him right now.”
My stomach lurched. My face went greenish—I could feel the blood drain. It was like she’d threatened to run over Seven and then reverse back for good measure.
“Fuck, Myla. Where the hell did you learn to talk like that?” I demanded.
She shrugged and flipped her hair over her shoulder with way too much attitude for my liking. “I read a lot. I’m not as na?ve as you think.”
Right. That was the problem. She wasn’t na?ve anymore. She’d grown up while I’d been busy trying to punch my way out of every hard feeling I had.
My chest tightened. The protective big-brother part of me shoved everything else aside.
My expression softened before I could stop it.
I grabbed her hand, my fingers wrapping around hers, and lowered my voice so only she could hear.
“I just don’t want to see you get hurt. And he’s my captain, for Christ’s sake.
I don’t want to have to hate him for any reason other than him being a pompous twat from time to time. ”
It came out more honest than I’d planned. Less chirp, more confession.
Underneath the irritation was fear—raw and simple. Fear for her. Fear of losing what little truce Gavin and I had finally built. Fear of watching history repeat itself in a different costume.
She didn’t throw it back in my face. Instead, she held my gaze for a second, her eyes soft in that way that always made me feel like I was still the kid dragging her out of Dad’s path when he was in a mood.
The bartender slid the bottle of scotch onto the counter, and, before I could reach for it, Myla’s hand shot out.
She signaled to the bartender just before she poured my drink. “Hold off on that one. We’re going to head home.”
The bartender raised an eyebrow but didn’t argue, just moved on to the next order.
I sighed and fished my wallet out of my back pocket, peeling off some cash for my tab.
“Won’t even let me have a good time with my friends.
Making out with my damn captain—now I know why I don’t bring you around.
” I couldn’t help it—I winked and pulled her into a brief hug.
“Kidding, sis. You’re right. Time to ice down my knee and call it a night. ”
My knee throbbed in agreement. The postgame adrenaline had worn off, and all that was left was a dull, grinding ache crawling up my leg.
Gavin appeared behind us then, smelling like soap and faint aftershave—freshly showered, freshly dangerous. “Leaving so soon?” He hooked an arm around my neck, pulling me in like we were way closer than we actually were. “You’re taking my beard away.”
I laughed, some of the tension draining out of my shoulders. “She’s making me go. It’s all her fault.”
He slipped a napkin into Myla’s hand, subtle and secretive. Of course he did. “Get home safely, you two. Cox, I’ll see you in the barn tomorrow.”
I caught a flash of ink on the napkin—his number, obviously—but pretended not to notice. No point starting that argument in the middle of the bar.
I shifted my weight off my bad knee and started moving toward the exit, muttering about ice packs and scotch under my breath. I could feel Myla fall into step beside me, as familiar as my own shadow.
Behind us, the bar kept roaring—highlights on the TVs, our teammates reliving the game, strangers screaming about goals and fights and stats. Same circus. Same noise.
But walking out with my sister, knowing she was okay, knowing we’d survived yet another shitstorm together?
That was the only part that mattered.