Someone Like Me (Pacific Northwest Boys #2)
Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
SEBASTIAN
He’s been here almost every night for weeks. A regular, if you will—but not the good kind.
I don’t know why I don’t toss him out on his ass like I would any other drunk.
Probably because the guy lost his whole damn career because of an errant hockey puck. But watching the downfall of someone you once admired is never easy, and I’ve had the joy of witnessing it up close and personal.
Note the sarcasm.
Today, Brantley Micheals arrived during our brunch rush and ate two plates of chocolate-chip pancakes like a child; he’s been here ever since but moved from his usual seat at the bar and is sitting at one of the high-top tables, chatting with a group of younger guys, a cocky smile dancing on his lips.
I can already tell he’s had too much to drink because his stubbled cheeks are flushed and his dark blond hair is unusually chaotic.
He’s mostly harmless, and the staff love him, especially my sous chef, Gabriella, and my head bartender, Brett.
Still, there have been a few incidents that have made me question whether allowing him in here isn’t enabling his newly developed alcoholic tendencies.
I sigh and turn, walking through the pub toward the office I share with my older brother, Marcus.
Normally, I’m on the front lines as the executive chef, but Marcus requested I take on more administrative tasks, so I’ve reluctantly ceded my head-of-house role to Gabriella.
Marcus and I are in the process of opening another Brothers’ Beer I hit him—right in the mouth. He goes down again, and this time when our gazes clash, his eyes are wet with tears as he touches his split lip. But he’s not angry like I expect, just bewildered.
“You were great!” I grit my teeth in frustration.
The raw vulnerability in his eyes is almost too intense to watch.
“You could have been a legend. I get that bad luck fucked your life up,” I growl, “but how did you fall this far? Where’s the cocky little shit who proved every sports commentator wrong? ”
My gut twists, and I turn on my heel.
“Bastian, wait.” His voice cracks. “I don’t know where else to go.”
I pause with my hand on the open door, and I turn to study him. “It’s a big fucking city, Michaels.”
“I know. I just…I don’t know anyone else here anymore.”
I feel the slightest tug of empathy deep in my chest—but the residual anger in my system snuffs it out. “That’s not my problem. I’m not your friend. You want someone to give you a break? Then get your shit together. Right now, you’re just pathetic.”
Then, I leave him and walk inside.