5. Annie
Chapter 5
Annie
“A n, why didn’t you tell me so many of them would be here?”
I shot Elliot a glare as I grabbed my bag from the ground, depositing it on a nearby sticky table to do up all of the straps.
I’d already stuffed the napkin deep into my pocket, but it felt like it was burning a hole there, a dirty little secret that I needed to keep hidden.
That and my fantasy.
“Because I thought that was obvious,” I huffed, forcefully shutting one of the zippers. “I’ve told you before that a lot of the guys stop by after the games. It’s like, the number one spot to pick up puck bunnies.”
“Yeah, but you didn’t mention that tonight .” Elliot hovered next to me, his eyes focusing in on Cole across the bar, the two guys on either side of him. “That’s Xavi Moreau and Colton Miller. Oh my god, I want to pick their brains.”
Jesus. All three of them.
I buckled the last strap and threw the bag over my shoulder without an inkling of his help. “El, stop. I work here. You’re going to embarrass me if you keep ogling over them.”
But he didn't hear me. Of course he didn't. “Can you get me their autographs?” he asked, not even bothering to look at me as his gaze darts around the bar, looking for even more players, but only coming up with a few from tonight’s opposing team.
“No.”
That got his attention.
His head whipped to me in an instant, his brows furrowing beneath his glasses, little lines appearing on his forehead.
“What? Why?” he snapped, his gaze turning more into a glare. “Annie, you know I’m writing a book on the NHL. I’m not just doing this because I’m some desperate fan.” Debatable. “Please, babe. Just go ask. It can’t hurt to ask.”
I almost recoiled from his insistence. “Then you do it.”
His mouth opened as if he had a retort, but he closed it a second later, his jaw working. “You’ve served them before. It’ll be less weird if you do it.”
I looked across to where he’d been staring at Cole, taking in the two guys on either side of him. All of them were taller than Elliot, and the other two, Xavi and Colton, stood taller than Cole. Cole looked older than the two of them, somewhere in his mid to late thirties from what Elliot had said. His hair was cut fairly short, the salt-and-pepper strands contrasting his somewhat tanned skin. I’d clocked his gentle brown eyes almost immediately when he’d approached me, his harder, stocky exterior almost softened by them alone.
But the other two… they were younger, probably closer to my age at twenty-five. I remembered the three of them from the last time they’d come in when I was working — the one with the ponytail had tried to hit on me, and the other had stared at me drunkenly for so long that I’d almost laughed at him.
Christ, I didn’t want to have to approach them.
How could I?
Not after they'd fucked me in my fantasy.
But Elliot was looking at me with those puppy dog eyes, tugging at my heartstrings despite being my greatest annoyance of the evening, and I knew I didn’t really have a choice here.
“Fine,” I grumbled, pulling my pen back out of my bag. “You owe me.”
I didn’t wait for a muttered thank you or an appreciative glance, knowing I likely wouldn’t get one. Instead, I pushed forward, grabbing a handful of napkins from a dispenser and using my shoulders to create space in the crowd as I made my way up to the bar. I was tempted to slip behind the counter so I could at least have breathing room, but I didn’t want to get in my coworkers’ way.
There wasn’t a single part of me that knew what the hell I was going to say.
Hi, I’m Annie, remember me? My boyfriend needs your autographs, he’s working on a novel about the NHL. I know you have no reason to give that to me and you’ve probably got better things to do right now, but pretty please?
I internally cringed at myself, axing that idea almost immediately. I could play it cool. I’d handled it well enough with Cole — so well, in fact, that he’d, for some reason, given me his number .
Oh, god. Does he think I’m a puck bunny?
No. I'm a good girl.
Shit. One that has foursome fantasies.
Heat crept into my cheeks as I finally broke through, stopping directly in front of the three of them. They stood at the bar together, towering over almost everyone around them, beer bottles in hand — the kind of men that made casual onlookers glance twice and puck bunnies stop and stare, or worse, attempt to climb them. I wasn’t even sure whether it was because they were them or just because they looked like that .
Colton Miller spotted me first.
He was the biggest thing in the goddamn room — all broad shoulders and long legs, his muscular body taking up more space than necessary as if he belonged in the center of anything and everything. His shoulder-length black hair was tied low at the nape of his neck, a few face-framing strands falling loose around features that should have looked intimidating. But they didn’t. Not with that dimple poking into his cheek.
Colton was the kind of guy who shamelessly flirted with anyone, all confidence and cocky charm that was only propped up by the girls who threw themselves at him every time he was in here. But the second his narrowed blue eyes locked onto me, a smirk cut across his cheeks.
His elbow went out, nudging Xavi in the side as his gaze roamed from my sneakers to my rolling eyes. “Annie, right?” he drawled, tipping his beer toward me and winking. “Took you long enough.”
Oh my god, they all think I’m a puck bunny.
My mouth went dry at the thought, my cheeks becoming uncomfortably warm. “Uh, yeah, I?—”
“She’s here for an autograph,” Xavi deadpanned, taking a sip of his beer and motioning toward the pen in my hand. His accent was a little northern, similar to my boss Gabriel’s. I was pretty sure Xavi was his son, but they didn’t look anything alike. “Not for you.”
Xavi leaned back against the bar, his elbows resting on either side of him, almost hiding just how lean and long he was. He was built, of course, what hockey player wasn’t — but his broader shoulders gave way to long limbs, a narrow waist, and thighs that looked so obscenely good in jeans that I had to physically avert my gaze back upward. He looked almost half-bored and half-amused, his black hair a carefully constructed mess, overgrown like he’d been meaning to cut it for weeks and just never got around to it.
Where Colton was all show, Xavi was quieter about his arrogance. He didn’t need to run his mouth to let you know that he could , if he wanted to. That was until he got a few drinks in him and stared at me without a hint of inhibition the last time he was in here. His wide, blue eyes flicked over me before turning to Colton, not nearly as invading a stare as his friend’s, but still just as intimidating.
“ Just an autograph?” Colton said, narrowing his eyes at me before jutting his lower lip out. “Ouch. Way to wound my ego, Annie. And to think, you were my favorite bartender…”
I blinked confusedly, trying to wrap my head around what was happening here, and glanced up at Cole, hoping he’d realize from the short interaction we’d had why I was over here. But he was the only one not staring at me outright — he was far more interested in his drink than whatever nonsense the other two were spewing. Salt-and-pepper black hair, warm brown eyes, solid and stocky whereas the other two were all height and limbs. He had the kind of attitude that came with experience, the weight of someone who had seen it all, done it all, and clearly didn’t have time for the theatrics anymore.
His gaze flicked to mine briefly, but it was completely unreadable. Great — guess I was handling this on my own.
I held up the napkins and pen, trying not to look like a complete idiot and probably failing. “I, uh, was just hoping you guys would sign this.”
“Yeah? This for you, sweetheart?” Colton chirped, his grin widening slowly as he reached forward, slipping the pen right out from between my clutched fingers and twirling it in his grasp.
I almost laughed at his shameless flirting, stifling the hint of a chuckle before it could make its way out of me. “No, it’s?—”
“It’s for her boyfriend , Colton,” Cole said casually, tipping his beer back and taking a swig.
Surprising no one, not even me, Colton physically wilted . His shoulders sagged, his head tipping back in an exasperated groan as if I’d just run him over with my car. “Annie,” he said, my name sounding like a complaint. “Tell me he’s joking.”
I let myself laugh at that, my hand instinctively covering my mouth. “Why would that be a joke?”
His hand clutched his heart as if I’d just wounded him. “Because this ,” he started, gesturing vaguely between me and him with his beer, “had potential. ”
God, he had no shame whatsoever.
Xavi snorted at him as he held his bottle to his lips. “He’s a coward, by the way,” he said, his eyes flashing to mine. “Your boyfriend. Sending you all the way over here to get some autographs instead of doing it himself? Weak.”
My nose crinkled. Elliot wasn’t weak , he was just… “Elliot’s just shy.”
Cole’s huff had me snapping my head up to him, watching as he crossed an arm over his chest and rested his elbow on it, lifting his beer bottle slightly. “He didn’t seem shy in the slightest when he interrupted our conversation.”
I gripped the napkin a little tighter, Colton still spinning my pen like a fidget toy. “He probably just thought you were more approachable.”
Xavi chuckled, but it was Colton’s roar of laughter, those little face-framing pieces swaying around his cheeks, that caught me off guard. “Oh, yeah, sure,” Colton wheezed. “The big, scary old man is so friendly.”
I narrowed my eyes at Colton, embarrassment and irritation creeping in from Xavi’s comment. “He didn’t seem that big or scary or old when he was talking to me.”
The corner of Cole’s lips twitched upward at that, but he hid it almost immediately with a swig of his beer.
Xavi chuckled lightly to himself, his knee swaying from where he’d perched his leg on a barstool’s footrest. “If you say so, Annie .”
I didn’t quite understand why the three of them were talking to me as if they were already drunk, as if they’d come in during one of my shifts and shared a little too much after pounding down beers. I was surprised they even remembered my name . I’d chatted with them a handful of times, but that was it, really. It was… strange, but I couldn’t deny that a part of me liked the attention at least a little bit, even if they were definitely thinking I was a puck bunny before I told them I was getting the signatures for Elliot.
Were they able to read my mind and see all the dirty images of themselves in there?
Almost sensing the shift, Colton swooped in immediately. “Well, if I must,” he sighed dramatically, plucking the napkin from my hand and scrawling his name across it in big, looping letters. Then, with an exaggerated flourish, he scribbled something else and grinned as he handed it back to me, the napkin hanging from where he pinched it between his first two fingers.
Slowly, I took it from him, looking down at the fresh signature, the bleed of the pen through the thin layers.
His fucking number.
I lifted one unimpressed brow at him. “Seriously?”
He laughed again, his voice booming over the low music and the hum of the crowd. “Just in case,” he said, raising his hands in surrender. “You know, if you ever need any… I don’t know, hockey advice?”
“ Hockey advice? I’m a musician.”
“I know, sweetheart,” Colton chuckled, winking at me before passing the pen over to Xavi. “Sorry we missed your show, by the way.”
“You have to stop calling me that,” I said. That was the best I could do to stop them thinking I was a puck bunny.
Xavi leaned forward, abandoning his relaxed pose against the bar, and plucked a fresh napkin out of my hand. He signed his name on the bar top, the letters neat and precise, before passing it back to me without a word.
I looked down, and low and behold, no number. I swallowed, the taste of something bitter invading my mouth. Why does that… bother me?
It shouldn’t have. It really shouldn’t have, because I had a boyfriend, a boyfriend who apparently needed me to do his dirty work for him and put myself in an uncomfortable situation where I had to ask to get NHL players to sign napkins for his benefit. A boyfriend who had barely paid attention to my set and had been far too into the game to help me set up.
But he was still my boyfriend. I still liked him, even if he pissed me off sometimes.
“Uh, thank you,” I said, the words feeling a little wrong in my mouth as I took a step back. “I’ll see you guys around, I’m sure.”
I didn’t wait for them to respond before slipping back into the crowd — but not before I noticed the way Xavi still clung to my pen, clutching the top of it between his teeth.
Elliot was on me the moment I’d cleared my way through the crowd of mostly women, his hands aggressively yet carefully pulling the two napkins I’d gotten signed from my grasp. His brows furrowed under his glasses as he looked at them, Xavi’s first, and then Colton’s.
“What’s this?” Elliot asked. His voice was even, but I knew that tone. The controlled kind, the kind that meant he was already irritated and waiting for me to say something that would justify it.
I blinked at him. “An autograph, Elliot.”
“No shit.” His jaw twitched as he looked down at it. “Why did he put his number on it?”
“I don’t know,” I said, and ouch, yep, okay — that was definitely a lie. But it was better than telling him Colton clearly had his eyes on me when Elliot was practically fangirling over the three of them moments ago.
His upper lip twitched in annoyance as he shoved them both into the folder he’d stored Cole’s in. “Were you flirting with Miller?”
“What? Absolutely not,” I assured him. “I didn’t ask for that.”
“But you kept it.”
I huffed out a breath through my nose. “Elliot, come on. What was I supposed to do? Rip it up in front of him? Give it back and ask for one without his number? I didn’t want to embarrass him.”
He let out a quiet, humorless laugh, shaking his head. “Right. Because protecting his feelings is the priority.”
I could feel my patience wearing thin with him already. “It’s not like that. You know that.”
“Do I?” Elliot shoved the folder back into my backpack and zipped it up aggressively, his movements fast, irritable. “I mean, fuck, An, you were chatting with Maxwell before I even asked for autographs.”
“He came up to me. ”
Elliot pursed his lips, hesitating as his green eyes blazed into mine. “Must be nice, Annie.”
I shook my head in confusion. “What? What do you mean?”
He shrugged, his arms going out in exasperation. “Being the center of attention like that. Having pro athletes flirting with you like you’re a puck bunny.”
My breathing stuttered, exhaustion from the day, from the less-than-perfect performance, from dealing with him starting to gnaw at me. “You think I like that?”
Elliot didn’t answer right away. He rolled his lips between his teeth, tilting his head back and forth like he was thinking about it, mulling it over, and god, I hated that. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “I just don’t get it. You pour drinks, you sing a few songs. I guess I just don’t see the draw for Miller.”
I recoiled a little. There was something pointed in the way he said it, something that made my skin feel wrong, something that made me angry . “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
He sighed as if I was the one being difficult, being rude . "It’s just not serious, Annie. I mean, it’s not like you’re making a career out of it.”
Anger prickled the back of my neck, hot and heavy and roaring to life. “What, because I don’t have a fucking book with my name on it? Because I’m not a one-week bestseller?”
He just stared at me unblinking, his expression one of steel, and I knew I’d hit the mark. That’s exactly what he was thinking. I was still trying to hit my stride, and he’d already found his. I was beneath him. Unworthy of much attention until I found my own breakthrough.
“You’re acting like you’re somebody ,” he said, his voice smooth, unwavering. “It’s a fucking bar, Annie. A crap one, at that. You’re a bartender. You’ll let this go to your head, let it make you feel like maybe he didn’t think you were just some puck bunny after a quick fuck to tick it off your bucket list, and get too full of yourself.”
His hand shot out, wrapping around my wrist—tight this time. Too tight.
I flinched.
The pressure made my fingers tingle, pain blooming sharp and fast beneath his grip. His jaw was clenched, green eyes dark and unreadable.
“Elliot,” I said quietly, trying to pull back. “Let go.”
I wanted to scream at him in the middle of Smokey’s, the crowd and the music and the players be damned. I didn’t care that my sneakers were stuck to the wood flooring that definitely hadn’t been mopped in a week, didn’t care that my set hadn’t gone perfectly, didn’t care that Cole’s number was still burning a hole in my pocket or that the way all three of them had looked at me had made my cheeks heat.
I just wanted to scream.
But I didn’t.
I cared too much about my vocal cords for that.