Chapter Twelve – Dylan
Of course, I would have liked to stay in the last bar, but as much as the Rangers irritate me, even they deserve a drink. Losing a game to us must have been a hard pill to swallow.
Plus, seeing one of them look at Fawn and say fresh meat . . . well, I was ready to throw hands. However, I’m captain — I’ve got to set an example for my team. I’ve mostly outgrown the angry phase of my life.
The moment we stroll into the next bar, a million thoughts are running rampant.
I can see from Fawn’s fake smile that she’s not feeling this place.
I don’t blame her — this spot is all about girly songs and pink lighting, and it smells like a cocktail mixed with a perfume bottle.
All around us are girls in super low-cut tops, laughing way too loudly.
I’ve noticed some of my team called it an early night, if they’re not already around this bar.
Torin has already attracted attention. Two girls at the bar are eyeing him up, trying their absolute hardest to get him to notice.
By the stern look on his face, though, he hasn’t even glanced at them.
My eyes flick back to Fawn and notice some guys in the corner are perving on her; it’s no one from my team or Rangers.
Their stares are too long, too intent. I can tell they’re the type of men who lurk in bars until somebody is a little too drunk.
I know how men like that act; it makes me twitch in revulsion.
A silly, idiotic part of me wants to take her hand, intertwine our fingers so men like that don’t dare make a move.
I know I’m being protective over a woman I hardly know, but it’s been ages since I felt that switch flip inside me.
I know Torin felt it back at the last bar, just like I did.
He didn’t step in front of Fawn for no reason.
A while back, some Rangers got kicked off the team for laying hands on a woman, and that kind of stuff sticks with you. You can’t be too careful.
And right now, watching her walk past hungry eyes? Yeah, I feel . . . protective.
Fawn doesn’t seem like the kind of woman to stand up for herself. I’ve seen how the puck bunnies look at her. She seems . . . innocent, but I could be wrong.
Torin leads us to the back, swooping in to grab an unclaimed table as if he owns the place.
Fawn looks mighty uncomfortable, hugging her bag as if it’s her only stability in the world, and I have to chuckle. Fuck, if she had a clue about the crazy things running through my hectic mind, she’d take off in a heartbeat.
She’s not my type. Or at least, that’s what I keep telling myself.
But there’s something about her — that she’s a writer, that cute smile, her amber-brown eyes I could get lost in, her cheeks that flush a deep pink color when she’s nervous.
She’s pretty but not strut-down-the-runway pretty.
More like she doesn’t know it, and that makes her even more attractive.
The high table is nearly as tall as her, though it doesn’t take much, considering she’s only like five foot something. I pull out a stool, trying to play it completely relaxed. I’m being a gentleman; it’s totally not because I want her sitting next to me, not at all.
I almost break out in laughter when she has to jump to get on the stool.
“Okay then,” I say, standing tall. “What’s everyone drinking?”
Fawn looks out over the bar, absorbing the atmosphere. “You know what? Screw it. Dr Pepper with vodka, please.”
My eyes blink hard. “You’re gonna drink alcohol?”
“Yup.” She swallows hard. “I’m going to need it. A single, not a double.”
I grin and lean in across the table. “Be cautious, princess. Don’t want you dancing on the table and singing karaoke with the martini girls.”
Jesus, did I just call her princess? What was I thinking?
Her mouth falls open. “Uhh, I would never. That’s something you would probably do.”
“Mhmm. Whatever you say,” I drawl, smirking.
Okay, she didn’t pick up on her new nickname, but damn, I sort of feel bad she requires a drink to make it through the night. Ah, who knows; perhaps it will take the edge off the anxiety she’s fighting so hard to keep under wraps.
My eyes sought out Torin. “Whiskey?”
“Neat. No ice. That shit waters everything down,” he replies bluntly, crossing his arms.
Well shit, he must be warming up a little now; he’s actually speaking. My dude’s not a cocktail guy, and he’s going to need something stronger than beer to deal with this place.
Shuffling, I make my way through the crowd, and as soon as my eyes lock on the counter, I see her.
Harper Turner.
Shitballs. Just what I fucking need: a puck bunny wanting another fun time.
She stands up with this enormous smile, like she’s super stoked to see me.
She’s probably been waiting all evening, no doubt.
She’s dressed differently from the rink — wearing a tight dress that screams look at my boobs, fire-engine red lipstick, clasping a black Chanel bag, and her hair’s tied back in a bun so tight, she couldn’t possibly have a genuine thought in her head.
I keep my chin tucked, locking my gaze, ensuring my eyes behave. Her fellow figure skater friend, whose name I completely forgot, is swooning over one of my players, practically swinging off his arm. There’s a part of me that wants to warn him, but fuck it. He’ll learn the hard way.
“I knew you’d show up,” Harper says, her tone as sweet as honey left in the sun a little too long.
“Well, I’m just out with the team, celebrating,” I tell her, being nice but level enough so she’ll pick up on the cue. She won’t.
I prop my arm on the counter, and naturally, her fingers begin to move along my forearm.
Wow, she’s not subtle.
“You played amazing today,” she says, batting her fake eyelashes.
I offer her a paper-thin smile that doesn’t reach my eyes. She already brought this up at the rink, but I have to play nice because her father funds us. If he didn’t sponsor the team, we’d be practicing on ice that looked like it was from a gas station freezer.
So, desperate times, desperate measures.
Slowly, I pull my arm away from her hold and fake a wave. Harper is too busy ogling me to realize I’m pretending I’ve got a bartender’s attention.
“Maybe for winning, we could celebrate by having another fun night?” Harper takes a sip of her rainbow cocktail in a very flirtatious way, nearly mouth-fucking the straw.
My eyebrow twitches, but not in a good way. The thing is, I don’t really remember that night I spent with her.
We were hammered, and what I do remember is her trying to cuddle after and me staring at the ceiling, trying to work out how to escape.
Is it wrong that I don’t remember the sex? Maybe.
Fuck, I probably sound like a jerk, but hell, if it was forgettable, it wasn’t that good.
Finally, a male bartender strolls over, and I honestly can’t say how thankful I am to see someone rocking a white shirt and an apron. This guy probably thinks he’s just doing his thing.
Nope. This dude is totally saving my life.
“I’m here with my team tonight, but to make it up to you, have your next drink on me, yeah?”
Harper’s smile turns into a sad pout, as if I dropped her Chanel bag on the ground. Great. That’s just what I need this evening — her dramatics. The bartender takes my order in the nick of time, before Harper has time to respond.
“One beer, whiskey neat. Vodka with a Dr Pepper. And . . .” I look over at Harper, giving that same fake smile. “A porn-star martini.”
Her pout dissipates immediately. Her eyes flash as she reaches for her straw with her mouth in this completely over the top, slow motion that’s supposed to be hot but just makes me imagine she’s going to choke.
“Are you insinuating something?” she asks.
Not a chance.
The last thing I’m going to do is drop hints. I just want her happy, which makes her father happy. I have to put my team before my pride sometimes.
Thank fuck the bartender seems to understand how desperate I am, because those drinks are coming out fast. My chance to escape is finally here. I grab the glasses like it’s a matter of life and death.
“Listen, Harper,” I say in my fakest charming grin, “enjoy your evening, okay? I need to get back to my table.”
I don’t wait for her reply. I’m already in motion, navigating toward the crowd with three drinks in my hands as if they’re my saviors.
When I finally put them down on the table, Fawn’s giving me this look, her eyebrows up and her lips tight, like she’s busted me doing something. Her gaze goes right past me — straight to Harper, who’s still hanging out at the bar, checking me out like I’m some kind of snack.
“A friend of yours?” asks Fawn, her voice relaxed but laced with curiosity.
“Something like that. Her father sponsors the ice rink and the team.”
She takes the drink from me, staring over the rim of her glass, like she’s waiting for me to divulge more information. I massage the back of my neck. “Uhh, we, uh, slept together—”
Before I can finish my sentence, Torin interrupts, “Thanks, captain.” Sarcastically, he raises his glass. “Because of that, we got new kits in an ugly shade of fucking green, and I have to be super nice to Harper and her bitchy friends.”
Fawn gulps down a large amount of her drink then clears her throat. “Dylan, it’s cool,” she responds with a small laugh, waving me off. “You don’t need to explain yourself.”
But something in me twists. She deserves the truth for reasons I don’t even understand myself.
I stutter, “Well, I feel, uhh—”
Before I can even absorb everything, Torin is already adding in another sly comment. “Don’t stutter now.”
“Oh, go have another whiskey, you grumpy son of a bitch,” I reply with a joking undertone.
“So,” Fawn interrupts us, trying to change the subject, “you told me your mom put you up for lessons. Did your parents play hockey or something?”
Her eyes are so bright, focused, curious. She doesn’t even realize she’s nearly opening a door I’ve had locked up tight for years. I know I said she deserves the truth, but I feel my chest tighten. The answer isn’t simple.
Well, I was adopted. I don’t know who my father is, and the woman I call Mom has only been that figure since I was six years old; before that, I was moved from home to home.
A brittle stillness takes over my lips.
Fuck, I can’t take that trip down memory lane. Not tonight. Not here.
Torin, on the other side of the table, lifts his glass and downs his whiskey in one motion. No hesitation, no strange face. His dark eyes stay on mine, rock-steady, as if he understands where my mind just went. But he doesn’t say a word, because that’s Torin — he never does when I need him to.
Perhaps that’s why I do it — why I playfully snatch the pen out of Fawn’s grasp.
Her breath hitches, her cheeks flushing immediately, her eyes flying up into mine.
Perhaps that’s why I do it — why I playfully snatch the pen out of Fawn’s grasp.
A tiny sound escapes her throat. The color in her cheeks deepens into a flushed rose.
I twirl the pen around, grinning. “We won a game, so let’s celebrate. You have all the time in the world to interview me.” I sit back on my stool, handing her the pen back slowly. “Let’s have some fun.”
I can see she’s still flustered. Her full, rosy lips tremor for a moment, looking kissable. Her fingers trace the rim of her glass like it’s going to spill some answers or something.
“Why don’t you go dance?” I say, easing the tension, shaking my shoulders like a dork, attempting to get her off her question.
Her eyes widen. “I . . . I don’t dance—” she says awkwardly, gripping her glass like a lifeline “Two left feet.”
Torin leans far over, and for a second, I think he is going to fall off his stool. He glances at Fawn’s tiny feet, and then a sharp scoff leaves his lips.
Jackpot.
This will definitely get him talking. “Well, you know who’s a brilliant dancer — besides me?” I pinch my shirt at the shoulders then cock an eyebrow at Torin.
His pupils constrict, focusing on me with a terrifying, singular intent.
“A few years back. Remember that time at the lake, on the dock, dancing—” I’m totally dragging it out, enjoying the look on his face. “Then you fell in, highly drunk.”
Just as expected, Torin bites. “I didn’t fall in, you pushed me.” He gives me the middle finger, I can’t resist giving him a wink.
Fawn seals her lips shut, her amber eyes sparkling as she attempts and fails not to giggle.
And Torin? He stares at his empty glass, trying to pretend I didn’t get more words out of him.
I do feel a little guilty bringing that up about Torin, but he can’t sit there like a statue for the remainder of the evening.
The guy has been grumpy and blunt since we left the rink.
I might actually kick him a little under the table, just so I can get some sort of reaction out of him.
Did he actually talk with Fawn back at the bar? Probably not.
“As much as I would love to hear about you pushing Torin into the lake, I’m here to interview you about hockey,” Fawn cuts through my thoughts, alarmingly serious.
Oh, fuckballs.
She’s navigating back to that serious question — the one I want to avoid like a checking penalty.
My stomach executes a little somersault.
Maybe I can bust a move or two — that will really throw her off balance.
I mean, what makes a serious question disappear faster than a guy dancing silly to horrible pop music?
A real guy would get up close, look her straight in those pretty eyes, and say, “Enough about family. Got any other questions?” Straightforward and to the point.
Extremely mature, but not me.
I’m the guy who gets saved by some sort of heavenly intervention, which, in this case, would be my bladder. It’s just a matter of great timing.
The bladder deities have blessed me with their benevolent beam, and I suddenly possess the greatest excuse of all time.
“Well, hold that thought, princess. I’ve gotta use the little boy’s room,” I tell her, sliding off my stool with way too much enthusiasm for someone who needs to piss.