Chapter 10
HANNAH
So, it’s official. Brookes Devereaux is the biggest dickhead I’ve ever encountered, and that’s saying a lot because my dickhead count would have to be one of the highest on record.
Not only did he consume way too many beers over the lunch he tricked me into escorting him to by saying he didn’t know the city—funny, because he knew exactly where the closest fucking bar was—he then continued drinking until he got so drunk, when we came back to the studio, he called one of the nicest, and not to mention heavily pregnant, makeup artists chubby, and he was unable to finish his first day of filming due to his inability to string a sentence together without slurring.
I then had to escort his sorry ass back to his hotel, where he proceeded to try and shove his tongue down my throat before burping in my face and falling onto the floor of his penthouse suite and passing out.
Which is exactly where I left him, and precisely where I hope he wakes up in the morning with a killer hangover.
I missed tonight’s game because of Brookes, and I was planning on heading straight home to decompress, but I’m so pent up, I know I won’t get to sleep without a thorough dicking. And, lucky for me, I know a guy.
As I walk into Ned’s, the team’s post-game haunt, I remove my blazer, scanning the space and finding my friends toward the back, at their usual cluster of high-top tables.
“Hey, girl!” Fran spots me first, offering me a little shimmy from where she sits perched on her stool, holding a glass of wine in the air.
Fran’s boyfriend, Thunder D-man, Robbie Mason, stands close behind her in that protective way he always does, one of his tattooed arms wrapped casually around her neck.
“Hey,” I say, leaning in and placing a chaste peck to Fran’s cheek as I look around at everyone, my brows furrowing when I spot Happy sitting hunched over, staring down at the glass of flat-looking beer on the table in front of him, his jaw tense.
He looks nothing like his namesake and the farthest thing from his normal carefree-self, and I don’t miss the way it makes my stomach twist in a way I’ve never felt before.
Weird. But before I can go over to proposition him, I’m pulled to the side and wrapped in a suffocating hug by Millie.
She pulls back, her eyes comically wide. “Oh my God, tell me everything!”
I deadpan. “Your boyfriend is the world’s biggest d-bag.”
“Jeeze, say it to my face next time,” a low voice says from behind me.
I spin around to find Logan right there, a glass of wine in one hand, a beer in the other.
“Thanks, baby.” Millie takes the beer with a sweet smile, craning up on her toes to press a kiss to his smirking lips.
“Thanks,” I mutter, taking the glass of wine from Logan and gulping two big mouthfuls of crisp Savvy b.
“So, what’d I do now?” Logan asks, wrapping an arm around Millie and pulling her in close.
“Oh, not you, babe,” Mille assures him, patting his chest. “My other boyfriend. Brookes Devereaux.”
Logan looks from me to Millie and back again, clearly confused, understandably.
“He’s in town, and they’re filming some interviews and stuff with him for his special leading up to the Masters,” I explain.
“The Brookes Devereaux!” Logan almost shouts, his eyes wider than Millie’s.
I grimace. “Oh God, not you too.”
“The guy is a legend,” Logan guffaws. “He beat Tiger Woods’ longest drive by one fucking yard. One. His back swing has been studied. He’s like… not human.”
Frankly, I’m not sure why he keeps going. Can he not see the disgust written all over my face? I glance at Millie for some help, and thankfully she understands, gently slapping her hand over Logan’s chest again.
“No, babe. We don’t like Brookes Devereaux anymore,” she says slowly. “Brookes Devereaux is a—” She looks at me. “What was it you called him?”
“A chauvinistic, misogynist dude-bro with tiny-dick energy,” I say without missing a beat.
Logan blinks at me, and for a moment I think he understands, but then he looks at Millie.
“Forbes said Brookes Devereaux is on track to be the highest earning golfer by next year, and he has at least another five years of pro-level competition left in him. By the time he retires, he’ll be a billionaire.
He’s basically the Taylor Swift of golf. ”
“Wait… I thought this was Ned’s.” I make a point of looking around the bar before spearing Logan with a droll look. “I didn’t realize I stumbled upon the annual Brookes Devereaux Fan Club convention.”
Millie giggles while Logan at least has the decency to look sheepish. Rolling my eyes, I take my wine and turn, walking straight into Emily, Dallas Shaw’s fiancée, and Millie’s soon-to-be sister-in-law.
“Hey, beautiful.” Emily beams, pulling me in for a hug.
“Hey!” I glance sideways, noticing Happy still hunched over his beer with a cloud looming heavily over his head.
And I love Emily—she’s literally the sweetest human ever—but there’s something seriously nagging at me to go over and see that he’s okay.
So unlike me. Maybe I’m coming down with something…
“You missed a good game,” Emily says.
Dallas Shaw, Thunder goalie and Millie’s older brother, comes up behind her, snaking a hand around her waist and scoffing. “Yeah, except for someone almost giving away the W in the last thirty fuckin’ seconds. Thank God for the quick OT goal.”
I follow Dallas’ line of sight, looking back at Happy again. As if he knows he’s being talked about, Happy lifts his chin, and that’s when I see the gash that splits the bridge of his nose and the beginning of two black eyes.
I gasp, turning back to Emily and Dallas. “What happened to him? He doesn’t drop gloves.”
Dallas throws his head back on a barking chortle, and Emily spears him with a warning look. Clearing his throat, Dallas tamps his grin. “He fucked up, fell for Jenkins’s deke, let through an easy goal, and then seemingly forgot how to skate and collected the cross bar with his face.”
“Poor guy,” Emily says softly, looking at Happy with a sad smile. “I think he’s really embarrassed.”
“He’s not embarrassed,” Dallas rebuts, throwing his hands in the air. “He’s Happy fuckin’ Slater. Yo, Hap?”
Happy looks up again, quirking a brow.
“C’mon over here, bud, and let me buy you a beer.”
Happy holds his glass up in the air, declining with a shake of his head, and Dallas lowers his chin, whispering, “Okay, so maybe he’s embarrassed…”
Emily rolls her eyes, flashing me a knowing smile.
With a laugh, I turn and continue around the table, saying hello to a few of the other players I know before sidling in next to Happy. I feel him glance at me, but I avoid his eyes, staring up at the television playing a baseball game as I take a sip of my wine.
“You see the game?” Happy asks hesitantly after a few beats.
“No.” I shake my head. “But I heard you had a total shocker.”
He huffs a humorless laugh, and from my periphery I see him shake his head, and I don’t know why, but I feel my heart tug because that’s not like Happy at all.
In one go, I down the rest of my wine. Placing the empty glass on the table, I slide it in front of Happy, clinking it against his beer.
I turn my head to stare at him, waiting for him to look at me, and Jesus Christ, even with a busted nose the man is still so goddamn attractive. Those lips. Fuck. Me.
“I need a ride home…” I say on a bored sigh, quietly so no one nearby can possibly hear me over the din of the bar.
Happy’s eyes flit to the side, looking at me.
“And you just so happen to have a fugly-ass truck parked right outside.”
I catch his lips twitch, and when he finally looks at me, I bite back my smile and offer him a wink. Turning, I glance back at our friends, making sure everyone is far too preoccupied to notice what’s happening, and then I head directly for the door.
As I’m walking toward Happy’s truck, his alarm chirps and the lights flicker in response.
I glance over my shoulder to find him following a few feet behind, hands shoved into the pockets of his suit pants, head down.
I continue, opening the passenger door and hopping in, and Happy climbs into the driver’s seat a few beats later, not saying a word before starting the engine.
In fact, it isn’t until we’re in the steady flow of traffic on Ninth Avenue that I finally break the tension-filled silence.
“What’s wrong with you?” I ask bluntly, turning to look at him. “You’re not yourself.”
He’s overwrought, hands clasped tight around the steering wheel, his knuckles stretched white, jaw ticking, eyes slightly narrowed.
“Nothing.” He shakes his head, not looking at me.
“Is this about the game?” I press.
I see his Adam’s apple bob in his throat, but he doesn’t respond.
“It was one bad game, Hap,” I say airily. “Not even a game. Like, thirty seconds of a game. You guys still won.”
Again, he doesn’t respond, and I notice the way he chews on his bottom lip.
God, I’ve never seen Happy Slater so… bothered.
This isn’t like him at all. Suddenly, I get an idea, and, biting my back my smile, I shift a little in the seat, as close as I can get, and I reach out, gently cupping his cheek, my thumb coaxing his bottom lip out from between his teeth.
Happy glances at me then, his dark eyes meeting mine, and I offer him a small smile, my hand falling from his face down onto his chest, skimming over the soft cotton of his button down, following the tight ridges lining his abs underneath, before stopping at his belt.
When I make quick work of the buckle, releasing the leather, Happy sucks in a breath.
“What are you doing, Baby Draper?” he asks, his voice low and gruff.
I expertly release the clip, dragging down the zipper, and sliding a hand inside his boxers, I lean in close enough to drag my lips against the shell of his ear with a whispered, “I’m going to suck your cock so you’ll stop being such a downer.”