3. Jack
Jack
Do I regret last night? No.
Have I been to bed? Technically, it wasn’t mine, and I didn’t sleep, so… also, no.
None of that really matters right now because I think I’m seconds away from puking on my brand-new fucking boots in front of everyone in my hometown.
“… Who will win a date with my brother, Jack Murphy?”
The crowd shifts in front of me as I join Annie on stage.
Or maybe I’m swaying on my feet. I swallow the bitter taste in my mouth and grin at my sister.
I tug at my T-shirt, making eyes with the twenty-something brunette nearly eye-fucking me from the front row with my number, thirty-three, painted on her cheek.
I’m fine.
I don’t want to be here. But if this keeps Heather off my ass and my sponsors happy, I’ll do it. I can be Mister All-American Boy Next Door for a few hours. Though I mostly feel like an idiot with a camera-ready smile plastered to my face.
My little sister, Annie, squints her brown eyes at me, then quickly covers the microphone with her hand. “Try not to puke on Fred and Mrs. Phillips.”
It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve thrown up on Mrs. Phillips, my high school biology teacher. Never want to see another frog in my life after that dissection lab.
The thought isn’t exactly helping with my fucking hangover either.
I don’t miss the faded club stamp on the back of Annie’s hand. “Where’d you go last night?”
“Out.” She punches me in the gut, smiling at the crowd, before turning back to glare at me. “Who’d you sleep with?”
“Eww, gross. You’re my little sister.”
Annie, then Mr. Leechman, oversees the auction. I play to the crowd, even when Mr. Leechman makes some cringy remark about the winner who joins me on stage for a quick photo before she leaves with her friends. I don’t even have a chance to say hi or get a good look at her.
I chat with a few people from town, sign some autographs, take a picture with a toddler who definitely peed on me, then slip away and search for Annie.
I want to go home, take a shower, and sleep off the rest of the day.
Training and preseason shit is almost done, and I’m staring down the barrel of my ninth NHL season—my fifth playing forward for the Boston Breakers.
When I find Annie a few minutes later, her back is to me, and she’s talking to our older brother Ethan and his new girlfriend, Sloane.
Well, new as in this time around. They were a thing in high school before my brother landed in the back of a cop car after a bad punch sent her brother to the hospital.
Long story short, after her douchebag of a fiancé knocked up his ex-girlfriend before their wedding a few months back, Sloane finally visited Merritt Point for the first time in years. And she hasn’t left.
We’re delighted. Me included.
Until today…
“Don’t say it, motherfucker…” I growl at my brother.
Ethan cocks his brow, his hazel eyes damn near gleeful when he clocks my discomfort as he spins his hat backward. He’s tall and brawny after years of hauling lobster traps, but I can still take him.
“Sloaney?” I’m desperate for her to help me out.
She brushes back her long brunette hair, batting her lashes all innocent-like. “I heard it happens when we hit thirty. Can’t hold our liquor like we used to.”
“I’m twenty-nine,” I snap. “I still showed. I’d like some credit.”
She shrugs. “You’re going to be thirty…” She drops her voice to a playful whisper: “And you’ve had a rough go of it. All those fights, all those hookups…”
“I know you’re not slut-shaming me right now, Sloane Arden.”
Ethan tugs Sloane close by the belt loop on her overalls, buries his head against her forehead, and the two giggle. My grumpy-ass brother giggles now?
“You look like shit,” Annie blurts out. “There, I said it. I’m the cutest and youngest. Can’t be mad at me. It’s, like, a rule.”
I flip her off, even as she continues. “You have no shame. We all know that.” Annie folds her arms, then steps aside, revealing who they had been talking to.
My date.
Her name… I’m searching my brain for it. I swear Annie announced it. Lila? Alana? Thea? Fuck, I don’t remember.
I stuff my hands in my jeans pockets. I use my dimples to my advantage. Girls love dimples. Ask me how I know.
“Two thousand dollars.” Sloane grins at me. “Very impressive, Mr. Merritt Point.”
“My agent is going to be getting calls. I’m usually not so cheap.”
I mean it to be playful, but there’s an edge to my words.
My parents refused to take any money from me after the fire, and they’ve decided not to rebuild.
The neighboring businesses didn’t want my help either.
Annie came up with this idea, and I agreed, because why the hell not?
PR is always on my ass to clean up my image, not for the team’s sake.
The Breakers couldn’t care less if I’m a decent human being.
But brands notice, and Heather is convinced I’m losing money by being me.
I’d say it doesn’t bother me, but I think there’s a little part of me that does.
But right now, I can’t stop staring at the woman who won.
Soft pink lips, shiny with gloss. Shaggy black bangs framing her face, a little wild, a little careless.
She’s wearing ladybug earrings and a sweater thrown over a silk floral sundress that only draws my attention to her delicious curves. Yet, she isn’t looking at me. Again.
Instead, she’s anxiously searching the crowd, probably trying to clock an exit. Like she’d rather be anywhere else.
She doesn’t even want to talk to me?
That’s new.
My mouth is dry, and I scoff, mostly at myself. Jesus, I need sleep. Usually, my dimples work. I must be off my game…
“Hi.” I reach out my hand. “Nice to meet you. I’m—”
“I need to go.” She spins around, waving to everyone. “Sloane, Annie, I’d better see you at paint night next week.”
And for reasons I don’t like at all, I want to know where she’s going.
She skirts through the crowd, hell-bent on disappearing.
Annie slaps me on the back. “Wow, she was super excited to go on a date with you.”
“She didn’t turn me down.” I stand on my toes, watching as she weaves through the mob.
Ethan and Sloane are still giggling. “She most definitely turned you down, Jack.”
I open my mouth, my brain scrambling for words, any words, but I can’t come up with a single coherent thing to say. I pull away from everyone, my interest piqued.
I scan the crowd and find her power walking around the dunk tank, a pink velvet bow tied in her hair that swishes against the top of her perfectly curved ass.
My feet are moving before my brain can catch up, and I run after her.
“Hey, hey, wait a second.”
She rolls her eyes when she spins around, pressing against the garden fence in front of the art gallery. The animal-balloon vendor squeezes past us on the crowded sidewalk.
“I really need to go.”
I cock my head, grinning as she avoids my gaze. “Go where?”
“To work.”
“Where do you work?”
Mr. Leechman had mentioned something about books.
She tugs the sleeve of her sweater, then looks up. I’m met with the biggest blue eyes I’ve ever seen. Blue like the calm water trapped in tide pools. Clear and bright.
“Listen, we don’t need to do this. My friends bid on you as a joke. And you and your sister want to give back to the community after what happened. I get it.”
Funny, but I think I want to do it. Which is weird.
“Where do you want to go on our date?”
Her eyes flick down to my mouth for a moment before meeting my gaze again. Her cheeks are bright pink, but that’s the softest thing about her as she says in a low, raspy voice, “I’m not interested. Keep the money.”
“Keep the money? I don’t need it. It’s for Merritt Point.”
“No, I suppose when you’re Jack Murphy, you don’t need a thing. Everything and everyone falls at your feet, right?”
I mean, historically, yes. But I’m sensing she won’t, which is annoying the shit out of me if I’m being honest.
“What do you mean?”
She curses under her breath, then leans closer. She smells like vanilla and spice. Maybe cinnamon. It’s entirely too soft for her.
“I don’t know how to say this more plainly. I don’t want to go on a date with you. My friends were trying to help—”
“I’ll take you somewhere nice.”
Her eyes give me a once-over and—fuck. I think I like it.
“I don’t care if you want to take me to 7-Eleven and buy me a fucking Slurpee. I’m not going on a date with you.”
I press on, loving the way she licks her lips with a small huff. “Why not?”
“I prefer fictional men.” Then, as if I didn’t understand, she continues, “I don’t date.”
“I can be whatever you want me to be.”
She scoffs, rolling those gorgeous eyes of hers. Again. “Doubt it.”
I bite on my bottom lip, trying to hold back the grin ready to break free. “Do you want to grab a coffee?”
“The Boston Breakers follow concussion protocol, right?”
I swear my jaw tics, even as I grin and fight back a disbelieving laugh at her dig. “So you think you know how I operate?” I don’t let her interject this time. “Fine, no date, just coffee. If you don’t like me, you can leave right away.”
“I’m trying to do that now.” She sighs, her hand shooting up to twirl her ladybug earring. “When’s the last time you took someone out to dinner? And don’t even lie and tell me you offer to make them breakfast.”
“You want to find out?”
She finally laughs. Might be my new favorite sound.
“Does this work for you normally?”
I shrug, scrubbing a hand over the dark scruff on my jaw. I should have shaved.
“I don’t know how to say this any nicer, and frankly, I don’t owe you an explanation. I have work, and I can’t be late.” She turns to walk away.
“It can’t wait a few minutes?”
She peeks over her shoulder to speak to me. “If you have to ask that, then I’m going to assume you don’t really care. And I’m not wasting my time on men who don’t. So…”
“That’s not what I meant.”
Her phone rings, and she turns to grab it from the small purse slung across her body. I can’t hear all the details—something about her sister—before she hangs up.