Chapter 2
two
. . .
Nick
three years ago
We lost.
We fucking lost.
I don’t know how the fuck this happened. One minute, we were up 4–1 in a relatively comfortable Game 7.
Less than nine minutes later, the final buzzer rang out: 4–5. With Philadelphia of all teams winning the fucking Cup.
That Cup had our names on it! We were so fucking close. In the end, it wasn’t enough. Nothing I ever do will be enough.
I’m on day four of my personal pity party when I stumble into a bar in suburban Ohio. After the brutal loss in Philly, I booked the first flight out of there. For some reason, that led me to my best friend’s hometown, even though she doesn’t live here anymore.
I can’t stand the thought of going back to New Orleans and facing my city, my team. It was my job to help lead the team. And I led them to a loss.
I needed new scenery while still licking my wounds.
Or maybe… perhaps I can find someone to lick something else for me.
I haven’t been in the mood since that night. Yeah, it’s only day four, but after a long playoff drought—some superstitions can’t be challenged—I’m more than ready to get my dick sucked. And then some…
When I walk into the bar, though, I’m surprised at the obscene amount of blue and yellow. I thought those colors were illegal here. Hell, I once got heckled for wearing a blue suit with a yellow tie in Columbus, when in reality, I just liked the suit. I didn’t know about the rivalry.
The bar is surprisingly crowded for four o’clock on a Wednesday afternoon, but I spot an empty barstool in the corner. A woman sits beside it, reading on a small tablet.
Good. She probably won’t want to talk.
Pulling my hat down over my forehead, I trudge over.
The woman looks up and her eyes focus on me.
She’s pretty, with copper hair pulled back into a loose ponytail and amber-brown eyes that look kind.
She’s wearing high-waisted trousers that do little to hide her thick curves and a scoop-neck blouse that gives a tantalizing view of her generous chest. Tall, wide, and curvy, she is not some frail little thing, that’s for sure.
“This seat taken?” I mutter.
She shakes her head, then goes back to her e-reader. Great. I’m not in the mood to make friends, either.
When the bartender strolls over, I order a beer, then stare into it.
We lost. We fucking lost.
What am I supposed to do now?
There are four more seasons left on my contract, and having just been traded at the deadline, I don’t want to leave New Orleans. I want to make my mark, prove they weren’t wrong to invest in me.
Once I find the courage to get back there, that is.
A cheer goes up around the room and I startle, nearly spilling my beer. My neighbor looks up from her book to stare at the big-screen TV, where the College World Series is playing. Michigan just scored a run against Oklahoma.
A “HAIL” poster hangs on the wall, and looking around the room, I notice the big block M on the flag, along with the various blue and yellow decorations.
No, not yellow. Maize. “This is a Michigan bar.”
I don’t realize I’ve spoken the words out loud until the woman beside me laughs.
“You just realized?” She glances at me from the corner of her eye. “You’re not one of them, are you?”
“Oh, no, I’m not from Ohio,” I assure her. “Just passing through.”
She smiles. “Okay, good. You can hang out, then.”
Against my will, my mouth quirks into a facsimile of a smile. “Thanks. I’d hate to get kicked out. I just got here.”
“Yeah, we couldn’t have that.” She sips from her drink, which is mostly melted ice with about an inch of dark soda.
“Need another?” I nod to her drink.
Her eyes flicker down my face, then my body, then linger on my bushy playoff beard. I’m not ready to part with it.
“Yeah, okay,” she finally says. “My friends call me Bex.”
“Nick.” I offer my hand and am pleased when she takes it. Maybe we can be friends… for a few hours, at least.
Her palm is soft and smooth, and a spark jumps between us. I swallow and look away. Picking up my beer, I bring it to my lips and drain the last third, then make eye contact with the bartender. “Another, please, and whatever she’s having.” I hand over my card to start a tab.
“Rum and Coke, please,” Bex orders. “Oh, and cheese fries.”
“I approve.”
Bex smirks. “Oh, goody. All I want in life is the approval of random men in bars.”
Shaking my head, I hide my smile and tip the bill of my hat. “Happy to oblige.”
From the way her grin widens, there might be more truth to her statement than she intended.
“You come here often?” I ask as the bartender delivers our drinks.
She snorts. “Smooth.”
“You already know I’m just passing through.”
“Same here. Had a job interview.” She frowns, swirling her ice through her drink. “Don’t think I’m going to take it, though.”
“Oh?”
“I don’t know if I could stomach living in Ohio,” she admits, and it’s my turn to snort. That’s what I’ve always told Elsy. “Also, it’s not exactly my field of research, and I like what I’m studying.”
“What are you studying?”
“I’m a biostatistician with a focus in genetic epidemiology,” she says.
I nearly fall off my stool. “What?”
She’s gorgeous and smart? Talk about winning the lottery. And her body… fuck, I could get lost between her thick thighs or with my face buried in her chest and die a happy man. My hands itch to touch her, to run my fingers through her red hair or stroke her skin.
While I’m reeling through in fantasies, though, Bex’s faint smile drops.
“That sounds super cool,” I tell her. “What exactly is it that you do?”
She rolls her eyes. “You don’t have to pretend to care. It’s okay. I get it, it sounds boring.”
“It doesn’t, though.” I twist toward her, setting my foot on the bottom rung of her barstool. “Tell me about it.”
“I study genetic risk factors in populations for specific diseases.” She says this matter-of-factly, but with her guard up, like she’s expecting me to tear her down.
“That’s absolutely fascinating.”
She rolls her eyes.
“No, I’m serious. So you study, like, why certain people get cancer or heart disease?”
Biting her lip, she nods.
“What about CTE?”
Call me crazy, but I have a vested interest in the research around the dark cloud hanging above every hockey player’s head.
Especially considering I’ve had seven concussions, including one this past season that took me out for almost a week.
Each time, the recovery seems to take longer and longer, and I can’t deny I’m concerned about the long-term side effects.
Bex freezes and her eyes flare.
“What?” I ask.
“That’s what my master’s thesis was on,” she whispers, and I go still.
She scans over my form again, lingering on my chest and shoulders, then down to my thick thighs and my hairy, muscular calves poking out from beneath my shorts.
“You’re an athlete,” she says. “And from the build, the beard, and the fact you’re here right now, I’m guessing you’re not interested in football or rugby.”
“Not quite.”
“Please tell me you play beer league,” she whispers, almost pained.
My eyebrows dart up. “You know what beer league is?”
Recreational hockey is popular in most of the country, and there’s nothing to say she’s from the Midwest, but I don’t think it’s well known among the people who aren’t interested in hockey to begin with.
She picks up her drink and takes a big gulp. “Did he put you up to this?” Her voice is bitter.
“Who is he?”
A sick feeling swirls in my stomach. Does she have a boyfriend? Her left hand is bare—no ring. Not married or engaged.
Bex’s lips pinch. “You don’t know him?”
“Who am I supposed to know?”
She shakes her head. “I should go.”
Just then, the bartender sets the cheese fries down in front of us. “You don’t have to leave on my account,” I tell her.
Red splashes across her cheeks while she chews on her bottom lip.
“I don’t know who he is, but I’m not him, and I don’t know him. I walked into this bar for a self-pity party, and now you’re here and I’m here. It doesn’t have to be anything more than that.”
With a sigh, she sinks back onto the barstool. “I have a family member in the league.”
My mouth dries out. “Like… the league?”
“NHL. Yeah.” She gives me a bitter smile. “He’s the kind of douche to try to send someone to watch over me, like I’m not twenty-fucking-eight and a fully functional adult.”
“That sounds like he cares? I think?” I’m an only child and have no close cousins, so all I know are hockey circles—and my best friend, who’s been my ride or die since college.
The bar lights shine off her copper hair, giving her a halo effect as she shakes her head. “It wouldn’t be so bad if it wasn’t infantilizing, and if he didn’t try it all the time.”
I rack my brain, trying to figure out who her family member is. “Would I know him?”
“What city are you signed with?” she counters.
Glancing around the bar, I confirm nobody is paying attention to us. I push the cheese fries in her direction again, and it makes me smile when she immediately takes one.
“New Orleans.”
Her eyes widen. “Yeah, you know him.”
“Who?”
“Now, that would be cheating,” she says, giving me such a satisfied grin, my cock takes notice.
“He’s family? Not a boyfriend?” I have to double-check.
She groans. “Gross. No. My brother.”
“So it’s not cheating, per se…”
Bex looks over at me again. Interest gleams in her eyes, and I flex a bit, which makes her huff out a laugh.
“Would it piss him off?” I ask.
“Oh, yeah. For sure.” She licks her lips. “You staying nearby?”
“Hotel around the corner.”
Bex cocks her head. “Why here?”
I shrug. “My best friend is from up the road, so we used to come visit in college. It’s… it was the first place that ever felt like home. My dad and I are… not close.”
“And you’re here with me instead of drinking with him?” She grins.
“She doesn’t live here anymore.”
Still, her guard springs up. “She?”
My stomach sinks. Why is this such an issue for every woman I meet? “Yeah. My best friend is a woman. Is that a problem?”
“You’re not together? It’s not cheating?” she echoes my earlier statement.
I shudder. I couldn’t possibly have feelings for Elsy. She’s just so… Elsy.
“Definitely not. There’s no interest there. She’s just a bro who happens to be female. We’re friends.”
We get this question a lot, but when someone has seen you at your absolute worst and still wants to spend time with you, there’s not much that can come between you.
Bex nods, accepting me at my word. “So she won’t get pissed if I invite myself back to your room?”
I scratch my hand through the bushy playoff beard. “Nah. It’s not like that with us.”
“Okay. Cool.” She looks down at the tray between us. “But I’m finishing the cheese fries first. No sense in letting them go to waste.”