Chapter 6
Six
Tedi
I’m a rip-the-Band-Aid off kind of girl. Always have been. So I get Tweetie’s address—which isn’t hard since he lives at The Nest, a condo building he shares with his teammates on the north side of Chicago that has a bar underneath called Peeper’s Alley.
It’s a well-known destination for all the puck bunnies that, from the rumors around the league, Tweetie likes to entertain. It’s embarrassing how much he’s gotten around since we broke up. Embarrassing and heart-wrenching, not that I’d ever let anyone know that second part.
I tip the Uber guy on the phone and walk across the sidewalk. They’re off today, so I assume he’ll be home, sleeping off a hangover. My attention is drawn to a sign written in girly script with a black Sharpie that reads, The Nest, that’s been fixed to the gate. God, it’s worse than I thought. Notes are taped to the sign with phone numbers and promises of a good time, all fixed with pieces of chewed gum. How can he even live here?
I press his buzzer, which just has the number for his unit, no last name. So, it’s okay for every warm-blooded female to know that three of the Falcon players live here, but they can’t know which condo they’re in? Men.
No one answers. I try to sneak a peek through the security gate, but it’s pretty well blocked with thick black mesh. So I press the button again and wait, looking around the area.
At least he chose a pretty awesome area to live, right by the Colts’ stadium and all the bars.
After a bit, I pull out my phone to check the time. I’m not going to leave here and think about this inevitable meeting between us all night. My first day to report with the team is tomorrow, and I want to deal with the awkwardness between us before then.
I press the number two buzzer. Surely one of the other players will let me up.
Still no answer.
Finally, I press the number one, but that’s a failure too.
I grunt, annoyed that Tweetie is making even this difficult, regardless of if he knows or not. My gaze veers to the sign above the bar. Fuck it, I’ll have a drink and hope he’s back by then.
I open the door of Peeper’s Alley to find a typical sports bar with televisions lining almost every inch of wall space. At least the inches where the Chicago sports team paraphernalia isn’t hung, most of which is the Falcons. I dodge examining Tweetie’s jersey and head right to the bar.
“We’re not open.”
I thumb toward the door. “But it was unlocked.”
The older red-haired woman puts her hands on her hips and looks me over. “It’s really sad, you know.”
“What is?” How could I have possibly offended this woman when she just met me?
“That you allow your hormones to take over your common sense. Do you see them in here? No. They don’t sit in a bar in the middle of the afternoon.” She points at the door. “I open in fifteen minutes. Go wait on the sidewalk or go back home, I don’t care.” She turns away from me.
I huff. I could listen to her—she’s definitely a “I’ll take you down if you cross me” type, but so am I, so let’s get scrappy. But first, I’ll kill her with kindness.
“Listen, I’m sorry, but I think you’re mistaking me for someone else. I’m not here for one of your employees. I just need to have a drink and wait for one of the residents upstairs to get home.”
She groans. “They’re all taken.”
My stomach swoops. “I’m sorry?”
“The Falcons. You’re late, they’ve been snatched up by other women. Women not like you.”
My fingers point at my chest as if I’m not hearing her correctly. I want to say not all of them unless Tweetie was the one who got married in Vegas this weekend and not Conor.
God, stomach, stop with the reactions. We don’t need him in our life.
“I’m not here to date them or sleep with them.”
She finally turns around from wiping down the liquor bottles. Her gaze coasts over me again, and she hums. “You are older than the usual ones.”
“Thanks,” I deadpan.
She studies me further. Just when I think she’s going to escort me out by my arm, she pats the bar in front of her. “One drink.”
I smile, take off my coat, and slide up on the stool. “Rum and Coke with a lime.”
She nods. “At least you can order a good drink.”
She busies herself pouring my drink, and I cross my legs, observing. I’m pretty sure under that harsh exterior is a woman with a heart. After all, if she’s so protective of the guys, she must care about them.
She places my drink on a napkin. I figure she’ll go back to the liquor bottles, but she slides another stool out from behind the bar and sits across from me. “So, who do you want?”
“I already said I don’t want anyone.”
“You’re looking for someone?”
I nod, sipping my drink before setting it back down. “Tweetie.”
Her head rocks back, and she studies me again. I’ve never felt so scrutinized by anyone. She doesn’t say anything, but there’s something in the way her lips almost tip into a smile that I don’t understand.
“It’s business-related,” I clarify.
For a woman who speaks her opinion on every turn, she’s awfully quiet.
“We knew each other a long time ago.”
“What did you say your name was?”
I have no frame of reference on how well she knows him. He lives upstairs, and it’s not out of the realm of possibility for him to be close to the bartender in the same building he lives in. Tweetie makes friends with everyone. Plus, she’s protective of them. The one thing I have on my side is that Tweetie keeps everything superficial with people. He’s not one to tell a story about how he’s been hurt. Then again, I’m not sure he was even that hurt when we broke up.
Shut up. You know he was. Just as much as you. You just like to deny it.
“Hello??” She waves her hand in front of my face.
I blink. “Sorry. Tedi. Tedi Douglas.” I extend my arm.
She stares for a moment before shaking my hand. She still doesn’t say anything, and it almost comes across like she does know my name, but there’s no way.
“And you are?”
“Ruby.” Her hand slides out from mine. “I own the bar.”
“I figured.”
Light filters into the bar from behind me, and her gaze veers over my shoulder. A small smile creases her thin lips. “Hey, boys.”
I have no idea how I’m able to feel that he’s entered the room, but I do. He’s here, and we’re back to sharing the same space. The hairs on my neck rise, or maybe it’s just my anxiety.
Game time. Do not let him see how much this hurts you.
After my version of a pep talk, I pick up my drink and swivel around on my stool.
All four of them are here. The Trifecta and Pinkie. Tweetie’s head is buried in his phone. As the other three stand with their jaws on the floor, he’s clueless. Conor elbows Tweetie and he glances from his phone to him, then Conor nods toward me at the bar.
Do not feel hurt that you felt him enter the room, but he didn’t sense you.
Tweetie’s head turns in my direction, and I swallow the lump in my throat until our eyes meet. I refuse to give him the satisfaction of a reaction from me.
So I bring my drink to my lips with a smile as if to say I’m perfectly fine. “Hello, boys. If you’ll all excuse us, Tweetie and I have some things to discuss.”
Tweetie’s phone slips from his hands and topples to the floor.
Ruby laughs behind me. “Back room,” she says, and I hear her feet hit the floor. “The rest of you, what can I get you?”
As if she’s their mother, the other three walk over to the corner of the bar, as Tweetie stands in place. I’m pretty proud of myself. I’m doing a bang-up job of acting as if my heart isn’t pounding out of my chest. I deserve an Emmy for this performance.
Until his gaze falls down my body and rises back up at a sloth’s pace. His eyes are like a caress, and it’s impossible not to remember when his hands used to travel the same path.
God, no other man has ever incited the desire he can from just one look.