Chapter 2
~Deacon~
~One hour earlier~
The men across the table from me show no signs of ending the conversation despite having already decided everything we came to dinner to confirm.
Honestly, even the discussion about the team’s draft picks the next day had grown repetitive.
The decisions were all made weeks ago and will depend on how the teams ahead of us pick.
We can talk about it until we’re blue in the face, and none of it will matter if the other teams scoop up our top choices.
On the one hand, it’s interesting for me, as a player, to be here, seeing what goes into making the decisions for the team’s future. Most players only experience the draft once, the year they’re drafted. Even though ten years have passed, I remember mine very well.
But my coach and management team know that I’m interested in the management side of things and have invited me to take part in the team discussions. As captain, they want me here to help welcome the new prospects.
I appreciate the opportunity, I really do.
But I also want nothing more than to hit the bar, drink myself close to oblivion, and pass out so that I forget all the other memories that being back in Vegas drags up.
“Do you need anything else from me?” I cut in before my dinner companions can launch into another long-winded discussion that has nothing to do with me, the draft, or even with hockey in general.
Brice, the team coach, throws a sympathetic look my way that makes me crave a beer more than ever. He’s been a good friend to me this year, but he doesn’t truly understand what I’m going through. How could he, when he’s been happily married to the same woman for thirty years?
“Nah, we’re good, Deke. Get some rest and we’ll see you tomorrow.”
Giving the other men at the table a nod of acknowledgement, I make my escape, taking a deep breath of relief as I breeze past the hostess stand and out of the high-priced restaurant, a far cry from the type of establishments I usually frequent.
My relief is short-lived. As soon as I step out the front door, camera flashes blind me. Circles of light fill my vision as disembodied voices shout questions at me.
“Have you seen Brady?”
“Are you and Megan getting back together?”
“Did you get Brady traded?”
The words blur together until I can’t make out any individual questions. With a scowl, I push my way through the small group of paparazzi and hop into the first waiting taxi on the street. “Take me to a bar away from these jackasses.”
The driver chuckles and pulls out into traffic without hesitation. Thankfully, he stays silent until we pull up in front of a small hotel on a much-quieter block. “This is my local place. Should be safe here.”
“Thanks.” In gratitude, I toss a couple of bills at him that are probably double what I owe him. It’s worth it when I step inside and see the laid-back, lazy vibe of the place he brought me to. I can practically feel the weight lifting from my shoulders as I step up to the bar and place my order.
While the bartender grabs my drink, I take a quick look around.
Nobody’s paying me any attention. Small groups of friends mix with a few couples, all focused on their own companions.
This isn’t a place you go to pick up someone, and definitely not where you expect to see someone from the tabloid headlines. It’s perfect.
As my gaze returns to the bar, it pauses on a woman sitting at the end of the L-shaped table-top, on her own, her eyes focused on her phone.
The screen lights up a face that reminds me of old Hollywood movies: elegant and timeless with sharp cheekbones and full lips.
She’s dressed casually, her shoulder-length, wavy blonde hair falling naturally around her face.
It’s not a word I use often, but she’s stunning, and I blink hard when I catch myself staring.
It’s clear to me that she’s not looking for company, and I didn’t come here to pick up anyone anyway. The bartender hands me my beer and I step away from the bar, finding a quiet table in the lounge where I can sit and drink on my own until the edges of my life start to dull and blur.
Half an hour later, I leave my second empty bottle on the table and head to the restroom. On the way back, I stop at the bar for another beer, and my eyes naturally seek out the woman who had been sitting there without me consciously making the decision to look for her.
She’s still there, but she’s no longer alone.
A grey-haired man has joined her, and her body language screams that she’s not happy about it.
Edging closer, I catch some of their conversation, and when the guy refuses to back off, I find myself stepping in.
Next thing I know, she’s sitting across my table from me, her small, soft hand tucked into mine, and everything else in my life falls away.
Daley.
She’s fucking gorgeous, and despite her attempt to gently warn me away because she thinks she’s too old for me, I don’t see it that way.
All I see is an open, beautiful woman who’s as attracted to me as I am to her even though she doesn’t know who I am.
When I give her my name, there’s no flicker of recognition in her eyes, and that only increases her appeal for me.
I didn’t come here to pick up a woman, but it’s been such a long time since I felt an instant connection like this that I don’t intend to ignore it.
“Are you actually waiting for someone here tonight, Daley?”
I heard her say so to the guy at the bar, but it didn’t ring true to me. Still, I don’t want to overstep. If she’s taken, she’ll tell me so.
“Yes,” she replies, and my spirits sink. Her next words, however, give a tentative reprieve. “My son promised to check in with me when he gets back from a night out with his friends.”
I do the mental arithmetic, since she’s the one who brought up her age.
If her son is going out, he must be around 21.
She could have had him young; if she was 16, say, that would make her 37.
That tracks with what I see in front of me: a maturity and self-confidence that draws me in.
She’s older than me, sure, but I can’t see why it should make any difference.
Her relationship status concerns me much more, so I ask her straight out: “And your son’s father?”
She lets out an indelicate snort that only makes her more endearing. “If you see him, let me know. I don’t think I’d recognize him at this point.”
My chuckle seems to please her. An unspoken acknowledgement passes between us, an understanding that we’re on the same wavelength. It doesn’t happen to me very often, and maybe I’m projecting, but I get the feeling it’s unusual for her too.
Who would have thought I’d come across someone so intriguing in a random bar in Las Vegas? I’m not even sure exactly where I am, but I know there’s nowhere else I’d rather be right now.