Great Game
Adrian
5 years ago
Heavy bass vibrates through my chest. The speakers are old and blown out, and the opening riff of “Welcome to the Jungle” screeches through them, sharp and tinny like nails dragged down a chalkboard. I swirl my beer around—nothing has ever looked less appealing. Somewhere behind me, I hear a loud, high-pitched laugh. It sounds fake, as if the woman laughing is trying hard to appear amused. It’s so noisy that perhaps that’s why the firm hand landing on my back startles me, making my body tense instinctively. It wouldn’t be the first time someone has come looking for trouble after a game, and honestly, I wouldn’t mind letting off a little steam tonight. The bar is packed with people from the arena, a sea of jerseys, and I’ve learned not to expect much from strangers in a place like this. I spin on my heels, tension ripples through me, and my fists curl out of habit.
“Libby, man, you played brilliantly tonight!”
A minor disappointment tempers my pleasure; I had hoped for something different, but I still manage to plaster a broad smile on my face.
“Thanks.” I pause. I recognize the guy before me, but his name is missing from my memory.
“Jake… White,” He offers. “We met at Jen’s birthday thing a few months ago.”
He continues, offering details of that night. It’s pointless. I don’t remember Jen’s party or meeting him.
I nod thanks and mumble the typical bullshit we’re encouraged to spit out: a team effort, we had a goal, we worked hard, and we’re happy with the outcome. I still can’t believe the attention this beer league hockey tournament gets. When I was a kid, this was where the old boys went to reminisce about the good old days—the days that never were. Thanks to social media and our goalie’s wife’s videos, we’re “viral,” and our quiet beer league hockey draws a considerable crowd and brand sponsors.
I rejected it outright when the team brought it up. I can’t stand social media - the endless highlight reels and fake smiles, curated lives that mean nothing. I don’t understand how people have the time or energy to maintain that presence. Don’t even get me started on the character of people who waste all their time on those platforms, putting on a show for people they’ll never meet. I don’t see the appeal of making yourself vulnerable to an audience that doesn’t give a shit about you. And now, somehow, I’m part of it.
“Adrian?” the guy in front of me asks.
Guess I tuned him out.
“Sorry, bro, pretty gassed after today. Did you say something?” I say, scrubbing a hand over the scruff that seems more like ten o’clock than five.
“What’s next for the team? Seems like you guys have completely changed beer league hockey. You’re famous!”
He touches my shoulder again. I look at his hand, and he realizes what I’m thinking, quickly taking it away. He mumbles something about next year and promises to see me back home, then rushes into the crowd. Relieved, I turn back toward the bar. My half-drank beer looks flat, free from the bubbles that signify effervescence. Groaning, I narrow my eyes and silently curse… Jason? John? Whatever the fuck his name was, he wasted my beer. For a moment, I contemplate going after him. Wouldn’t a fight be justified? With my forearms on the bar, I let my head hang between my shoulders and get lost in my thoughts.
How the hell did I end up here?
The bar is seedy, dirty, and thick with smoke, and I’m taken aback when a warm, sweet scent hits my nose. This scent isn’t only surprising, it’s completely improbable: warm, sweet, almost nostalgic. Vanilla, with something faintly like Christmas morning. The kind of scent that evokes a time when the world felt less heavy. I turn and scan the bar, trying to locate the source of the out-of-place scent, but Ronan catches my attention. There are two women on either side of him, and I can’t help but laugh—there are always women around him. A third woman stands in front of him, her back to me.
“Liberty!” He screams across the bar. “Get over here, man!”
The last thing I’m interested in tonight is desperate women whose partners don’t pay them enough attention. Still, he has a habit of getting into situations requiring adult supervision. I push off the bar and slowly make my way to him; my boots stick to the floor, tacky with spilled booze. As I get closer and get a better look at the girls on either side of him, I decide he might not be the one needing adult supervision. I’m shocked these girls are in the bar at all. They appear to be about a decade younger than us, around 18 years old.
One of my eyebrows shoots up, and I glare at Ronan.
“Man, what’s going on?” I ask, trying to keep my tone light enough that only he will know where my thought process is going.
He winks at me.
Here we fucking go.
“This,” he spits, pointing at the blonde on his left. “Is Amandaaaa.” He drags the name out like it’s supposed to sound exotic.
“It’s Alicia,” the blonde corrects.
“Yeah, Aliciaaaaa,”
Oh boy.
“And this is Stephanie,” He says, motioning to the redhead on his right.
They both face me, and they’re all doe eyes and hungry smiles. Jesus. They’re young—really young. I try to hold back my comment, I do, but it slips out.
“Your parents know where you two are tonight?”
They dissolve into a fit of giggles, and the woman standing opposite Ronan slowly turns around. I’d forgotten she was even there, and as her eyes hit mine, sharp and unflinching, sizing me up, that sweet vanilla scent fills my nose again.
I take her in. The neon sign on the wall reflects in her stormy blue-gray eyes, looking like lightning. She’s not my type - tall, lean, full breasts, long legs, too many tattoos, and a scowl on her face that tells me she also thinks these two are too young for Ronan—and that he and I are creeps looking to victimize two teenagers. She’s closer to our age—mid to late twenties. I’m not into girls as young as the ones stuck to Ronan like a fungus, but I’m also not typically into women my age. They’re too… everything. Too serious, too ready to settle down, too ready for kids. Too everything.
She’s everything I avoid—there’s too much fire in her stare, but my body doesn’t seem to care. Heat creeps up the back of my neck. Ronan’s laughter breaks the spell between us, and I break the eye contact to turn toward him.
“You gonna introduce me to this friend, too?” I ask, a hint of sarcasm in my tone.
“I would, but she hasn’t given us her name. She came over to criticize Amanda,” Alicia chimes in, correcting him again. “Alicia and Stephanie’s choice of conversational partner. I was hoping you could distract her for us a little.”
With his words, I notice she—the one whose name has yet to be shared—breathes a little faster. She’s mad… interesting. I focus my eyes back on hers and extend my hand.
“Adrian; it’s nice to meet you—don’t judge me for my friend’s actions. I don’t share his taste in borderline underage girls.” Smiling slightly, a weak attempt to bring some levity to the situation.
I would have been disappointed if I had expected a positive response from her. She stares at my outstretched hand like it is the most revolting thing she has ever seen, like it’s a rabid animal that’ll no doubt bite if she takes it. Slowly, her eyes return to mine, and she folds her arms across her chest.
Oh. This is how it’s going to be.
I tuck my hand into my pocket, allowing my gaze to trace the ink that covers her skin; she’s adorned with tattoos—bold lines and vibrant colors blanket every inch of visible skin and extend beneath the sleeves of her fitted black shirt. A gold chain rests against the hollow of her throat, thick links accented with clusters of charms. I can make out a small shell, a lightning bolt, and a black heart. When she swallows, her throat bobs, and the gold necklace glimmers. I drag my gaze back to her eyes and hold her stare. We might turn to stone like this, both entirely unwilling to break first, but Amanda/Alicia raises a white flag by doubling over and vomiting all over the floor. The nameless woman’s expression shifts from disgust to wide-eyed shock. She spins to face Ronan and the girls while simultaneously jumping backward, nearly landing on top of me. She stumbles, and I wrap my hands around her slim arms, and that scent hits me again. I lean in slightly and breathe it in, my nose lightly brushing her nearly black hair. I should release her arms and move back, but I’m captivated by the warmth of her skin. She doesn’t pull away; it’s almost like she leans back into my touch. Ronan and I lock eyes; his expression is one of pure intrigue, and it sobers me enough to nudge her forward slightly and drop my hands to my sides.
What the fuck did I do that for?
Bouncers are on us in seconds, grabbing Amanda/Alicia and dragging her out the front door as she continues to retch, with Stephanie stumbling closely behind them. Ronan looks at me and throws his hands in the air.
“I should make sure they get home safe,” He says.
Another wink, and he follows them before I can challenge this idea. I remove my hat and run my hand over the day-old stubble on my scalp. I contemplate my next steps when I feel eyes on me. Shifting slightly, she remains there, gazing at me. Her expression is thoughtful, even curious. Her eyes move up and down my body, taking me in while her head tilts slightly. We’re once again caught in a staring contest, and I doubt either of us is willing to lose. Her eyes are the darkest blue-gray and resemble the ocean during a storm.
What is she thinking?
“What are you trying to figure out?” She asks, her tone flat and assessing.
What does she see when she looks at me?
I steady my face, fighting my shock at the question; only then do I realize this is my first time hearing her. Her voice is strong and sweet.
How the fuck do I answer that?
She’s all contradiction—sweet scent, unforgiving eyes. She’s too much of what I can’t stand, yet I’m trapped in her pull, and I’m also wholly unwilling to let her know that my heart rate kicked up a notch at the question, at the sound of her voice, at the way her lips twitched into a slight smirk when she asked the question.
“Trying to figure out if you always look this unimpressed or if it’s just me.”
She scoffs and laughs, but her face remains even. The smile never moves beyond a flat smirk.
“That depends,” she replies, crossing her arms over her chest. “Are you always this cocky?”
“Only when justified,” I smirk, watching for her reaction.
Her sharp eyes narrow, scanning my face slowly and deliberately, like she’s dissecting me. I brace myself for whatever insult she’s conjuring up, then after a moment, she shakes her head and mutters, “Figures.”
I should go back to my beer. Find the rest of the guys. Get the fuck out of this awful bar. But I don’t—I can’t. Instead, I tilt my chin, motioning toward the bar.
“Can I get you a drink? You look like you could use one after—that situation.” I gesture toward the guy behind her, mopping puke off the floor.
She looks over her shoulder, reminded of the mess, and suddenly, she looks green, as if she may contribute to the pile. She exhales, fingers threading through the loose strands of hair that frame her face. For a second, I think she’ll say no, that she’ll walk away, but her gaze returns to mine, her eyes searching mine, and she steals my fucking breath.
“Anything to get me away from that mess.”
She steps around me, heading for the bar. That scent is everywhere. Vanilla. Sugar maybe? Milk? I watch her walk for a few moments, her head held high, back straight, a slight sway to her hips, and hair so long that it brushes the midpoint of her ass. Too long and twisted into a thick braid that sways back and forth with each step. For a moment, I imagine what it would be like to wrap it around her neck, to watch her eyes fall closed and those lips part. Blinking myself back to reality, this isn’t like me. This sudden hunger in this grimy bar, in a town I’ve never been to before.
Every other emotion leading up to this moment is gone.
Every other patron in the bar disappears from view.
There is only that scent, that sway.
Something in my chest loosens, and I realize I was waiting for her to decide. For the first time tonight, my mind is free from the weight of my job, team, and expectations.
All I see—all I need—is her.