Chapter 14
HAPPY
“Good game tonight, son.”
I snap my head up from where I’m unlacing my skates, shocked to see the flash of a smile ghost Coach Draper’s lips.
Tonight’s game was in stark contrast to my train wreck against Chicago.
I scored two assists and the winning goal.
I’m not an idiot; I know I’m not in the clear just yet, especially if Chris Garret gets his way, but the look on his face when I passed him in the tunnel to the tune of the home crowd chanting my name after the game was fucking priceless.
“Ned’s tonight?” I ask no one in particular.
“Yeah,” Dallas says with a scoff. “You’re not gonna act like a pissy little bitch and dip out early like you did the other night, are you?”
“Yeah, where’d you go?” Robbie asks. “You left without even saying a word.”
I swallow hard, feeling all eyes on me, Coach Draper literally a few feet away talking to the team’s media manager.
“Um, I—”
“He told me he was leaving.”
I look up to see Logan turn around from his locker, pulling his jersey up over his head. In a flash so quick I almost miss it, his eyes flick to mine and I see the reassurance in his gaze.
“I guess I forgot to tell you guys,” Logan continues with a shrug, unfastening his pads. “He left. Said he wasn’t feeling it.”
“Yeah,” I say with a smirk, looking at Dallas. “Didn’t wanna be a pissy little bitch.”
Dallas rolls his eyes, tossing a sweaty balled-up sock at me.
Robbie, on the other hand, looks at me long and hard, one of his eyes narrowing dubiously like he’s trying to figure out if I’m being real or not. But thankfully, before more can be said about my whereabouts last night, my name is called.
“Slater?” Coach yells.
I snap my head up. “Coach?”
“Get changed.” He juts his chin at me. “You got press.”
The locker room falls so silent, you could hear Rusty’s chest hair blowing in the breeze if you listened hard enough.
My eyes widen. “P-press?” I point at myself. “Me?”
Coach rolls his eyes. “No, the other pissy little bitch behind you.”
Everyone laughs. Dallas practically howls.
It’s not every day Coach Draper cracks a joke.
And I grin, but if I’m being honest, right now it’s taking everything I have not to cry.
In my three seasons on the team, this is the first time I’ve ever been invited to post-game press.
I’ve always been one of the background characters—an extra, if you will.
It is what it is. Not every player on a hockey team can be the star.
But this is a big deal; this is my main character moment.
“Sure thing, Coach,” I say, clearing the lump from the back of my throat. “I’ll be right there.”
Tugging my phone from my hockey bag, I scroll to my messages.
Me: Did you see the game?
Allie: Of course!
Allie: [pic]
My chest swells at the picture she sends me. My girl wearing my jersey, and I trail my finger over the screen, following the curve of her dimpled cheek.
Me: I’m going to be on TV again. Post-game press conference.
Allie: OMFG Happy!!!
Me: I’m going to go for a drink after, but I won’t be home late.
Allie: I’ll be here. Probably fast asleep in my textbook, but I’ll be here.
I bite back my goofy fucking smile, looking at the photo she sent me one more time before locking my screen and tucking my phone away, hauling ass and getting ready so as not to piss off the waiting reporters.
Ned’s is busier than usual, but a lot of our fans have caught on that this is where we like to come post-game. So, after tonight’s win, with only five games left before the end of the regular season, it’s not surprising to see the crowd at the bar grow with every win closer to the playoffs.
I make a beeline through the crowd, smiling at a few of the eager fans, stopping to take a couple of selfies with others, accepting handshakes and slaps on my back. I feel like homecoming king or some shit, but I can’t wipe the smile off my face.
“Here he is!” Robbie yells, hands held up as I approach the back of the bar, where they’re all set up at our usual tables. “Man of the fuckin’ match.”
“Did I do okay?” I ask nervously of my post-game press.
“You did awesome, bud,” he assures me, and I grip his extended hand, allowing him to pull me into an awkward bro-hug as a beer is shoved in my face by Dallas.
“Thanks, man.” I take a sip of beer, scanning the space filled with the familiar faces of my teammates and their significant others.
But, like a record scratching, I’m stopped suddenly, doing a double take when I spot Hannah perched at a high-top table with Millie and Logan, the three of them in deep conversation with some tattooed frat-looking fucker I’ve never seen before.
I might be wrong, but it looks like some sort of double-date, and I don’t miss the way my stomach knots.
“Who’s that?” I jut my chin in the guy’s direction, taking another sip of my beer despite my roiling gut’s objection.
Dallas glances over his shoulder, following my line of sight before looking at me like I’ve lost my damn mind, blinking once.
Robbie looks back at the table before gawking at me, his eyes incredulously wide. “Are… are you serious?”
I look between the two of them, completely lost.
“My guy, that’s Brookes Devereaux.” Robbie laughs.
“The world’s number one golfer,” Dallas says like I’m an idiot.
Of. Fucking. Course. I heave a sigh, studying the guy from across the way.
Tall, broad, arms covered in tattoos, dressed in a polo shirt and a ball cap; he sure as shit doesn’t look like what I envision the typical golfer to look like.
I force another sip of beer, suddenly wishing I’d just gone straight home after leaving the arena.
As if she can sense my gaze on her, Hannah looks up, peering over Millie’s bright red hair, her blue eyes meeting mine.
I haven’t seen her since the gym yesterday morning, and I know she’s pissed at me for peacing out on her the other night while we were literally mid-fuck.
But there’s so much she doesn’t know. So much no one knows.
Hannah doesn’t react at all, her eyes completely void of any and all emotion as she just stares at me for a few long beats. When Millie says something that makes Loges and Brookes laugh, it snaps Hannah out of her daze, her lips curling up into a slightly forced smile.
Finishing my beer, I hold my empty glass up, indicating the bar. “Another drink?”
“Always, brother.” Dallas grins, holding up his can of Pabst.
“You good?” I look at Robbie, at the bottle of water in his hand. He doesn’t drink.
“I’m okay, man.” Robbie nods, turning to join Fran, who looks to be in the middle of a very typical Fran Keller conversation with Emily and a couple of the other WAGs, her hands flailing animatedly in the air.
I turn to the bar, to the regular bartender, Lou, ordering another round for everyone which is when I feel a warmth press up next to me, the scent of vanilla and bubblegum invading my senses.
Hannah glances up at me from where she stands at the counter beside me. “I thought you had a one-drink limit during the season…”
“I do.” I nod once, my jaw tight. And I don’t know what the fuck is with my attitude, but I don’t like it. As if to prove something to myself, I flash her a smile I know doesn’t meet my eyes. “Thought I’d buy a round and then dip.”
“Good game tonight.”
I allow my gaze to drop down to her mouth. Big mistake. Now all I keep thinking is how her lips feel wrapped around my dick, but then I imagine them wrapped around Brookes Devereaux’s dick tonight instead of mine, and I grit my teeth so hard, my jaw cracks.
“Thanks,” I say tightly, clearing my throat and turning away from her to watch Lou place the drinks onto a tray.
“Fuck yeah. Jerky!” a deep voice cheers from behind me.
I glance over my shoulder to see Brookes approach, sidling up next to Hannah and checking out the selection of packeted jerky hanging on the display rack. He plucks a bag and opens it, stuffing a handful of dehydrated beef into his mouth, glancing sideways and offering me a grin while he chews.
“Brookes Devereaux,” he says with his mouth full, holding out his jerky hand.
I look from him to Hannah, who is gaping up at the guy with a look of disgust, and I shake his greasy hand, nodding once. “Happy Slater.”
Brookes grins, glancing casually between me and Hannah, oblivious to the tension that has so obviously settled between us. “You scored the winning goal. Congrats, bro.”
My brows arch higher in surprise. “You… watched the game?”
“Yeah, man, I was there,” he answers with a chuckle before snaking his ropey arm around Hannah’s shoulders in a move that makes it feel as if there’s a vise squeezing the life out of my lungs. “Hannah Banana let me tag along.” He smiles down at her.
“Let you?” Hannah scoffs, ducking out from under his arm. “I forced you to come because I can’t trust you to be on your own and not wind up in some drunken brawl in the Four Seasons hotel bar.”
It’s then that I notice the telltale shadowing of Brookes’s right eye. The guy is a fucking mess. I know. I’ve seen my dad go through it, and I can tell, as much as this guy tries to hide it by playing this cocky jokester, he’s balancing precariously on the edge. I almost feel bad for him.
The unease I felt earlier in my stomach unfurls, and I watch as Hannah shoves him away. She’s not interested in him. She looks at me, rolling her eyes, and I press my lips together in an attempt to stifle my smile.
“I’m going to the bathroom,” Hannah says, flashing a glare in Brookes’s direction before leaning over the counter to get Lou’s attention. “Don’t serve him, Lou,” she shouts over the music, jerking her thumb at Brookes.
Lou nods, and Brookes throws his head back on a heavy groan. I can’t help but chuckle, turning to watch Hannah walk off toward the bathrooms, her hips swaying in the tight jeans she’s wearing.
“So, what’s the deal with you and Hannah?”
I startle, finding Brookes leaning in, his breath hot and meat-scented, making me grimace ever so slightly. Pulling back, I blink at him. “What?”
“You and Hannah Banana,” he presses, grin knowing. “The way she was watching you during the game tonight, I just assumed—” He cuts himself off. “Look, I’m not gonna lie… she’s hot. I tried to kiss her last night.”
My hand balls into a fist, and this guy’s face is looking more and more punchable with every word he says.
“And I really wanna try and kiss her again, but if you guys are… y’know—” He clicks his tongue, winking conspiratorially and holding his hands up in surrender as he says, “Then just tell me, and I’ll back right off.”
Hannah reappears from the bathroom, walking back toward us, her face indifferent save for the look of unadulterated hatred she has focused directly on Brookes.
I highly doubt she’s at all interested in kissing him, but who am I to know who she’s kissing?
“Yeah, no, man. She’s umm…” I puff a breath from my lips as I consider myself, offering him a look I hope he understands. “I think she’s… she’s good.”
“Oh, shit. Roger that,” Brookes says, looking at me long and hard. “Sorry, man.” Again, he holds his hands up in the air and takes a few steps back, allowing Hannah to move in between us.
“Here you go, Hap.” Lou places the tray laden with drinks in front of me, and I hand him my card to tap.
I take the glass of wine from the collection and hand it to Hannah, noticing her first real smile of the night as she accepts it, craning up and whispering into my ear, “Are you going to take me home and finish what you started last night, or am I destined to have to hate you forever?”
As I look down at her, noticing the way one of her perfect eyebrows lifts almost tauntingly, my dick twitches.
But before I take the drinks and deliver them to my friends and drag her out of here and into my truck, my phone vibrates in my pocket.
Pulling it out, reality crashes over me from the text message displayed on the screen.
Allie: Can you come home. Please?
Dragging a hand down over my face, I groan inwardly, and when I look up, Hannah’s smile falters.
I offer her a hopeful grin, holding my phone up as if that explains it all. “Uh, rain check?”
Her pretty face morphs from playful to downright pissed. “Look, just forget it,” she mutters, spinning on her heel and storming back to her high-top table.
“Fuck’s sake,” I whisper under my breath, glancing from my phone, to the tray of drinks, to Hannah as she takes her seat right back next to Brookes motherfucking Devereaux.
That asshole had better keep his goddamn mitts off her because I’m not a fighter, but I won’t hesitate to kick his ass if I have to.