Four
I hate socializing. Especially when it involves a bar owner who likely spits in my drinks.
The Penalty Box is closed tonight for this “celebratory partnership” bullshit that Westfield insisted I attend. His threat still rings in my ears: “Gabriel, your contract has certain...expectations. Public appearances are non-negotiable.”
So here I am, sulking in the corner with a beer while my teammates enjoy themselves.
“You look like you’re having the time of your life,” Thompson says, sidling up beside me with a plate of Swedish meatballs. “These are amazing, by the way. You should try some instead of just glaring at everyone.”
I take a swig of my beer and shift my eyes away from the bar. Westfield. The screens. The merch table. Back to the bar.
Thompson follows my gaze to where the red-headed bartender—Ivy, according to the name tag she’s sporting tonight—is laughing with Andersson at the bar. She’s been all smiles and charm with everyone tonight. Everyone except me.
“Still hung up on getting owned by beer?” Thompson asks, shoving a meatball into his mouth.
“I’m not hung up on anything.” The lie tastes bitter on my tongue. “I just find it interesting that she’s perfectly capable of being professional with everyone else.”
Thompson shrugs. “Could be your winning attitude.”
I snort. “Lucky me.”
My eyes drift to the TV screens above the bar. A loop of last season’s playoffs. Game 7 of the quarter-finals—Whistler Wolves versus Montana Marauders. My old team. The game I lost.
Though the Wolves didn’t survive the next round either. Vancouver ran them over on the way to the conference title. Nobody’s screening that series tonight.
They’ve isolated every one of my missed shots. The pass I bobbled that led to a turnover. The penalty I took in the third period. It’s a highlight reel of my failures, playing on silent repeat.
“Weird choice of programming,” I mutter, my voice tight.
Thompson follows my gaze and winces. “Jesus. That’s cold.”
It’s not a coincidence; she’s dissecting my professional worth in front of my new team.
And it’s working.
She moves with practiced efficiency behind the bar, her burgundy hair catching the light as she pours drinks and plates appetizers. Her hands move as if they’ve done harder things than pour beer.
“You should talk to her,” Thompson says, interrupting my thoughts.
“Why would I do that?”
“Because you can’t stop staring at her, and it’s getting weird.”
I tear my eyes away, annoyed at being caught. “I’m not staring. I’m trying to figure out what her problem is.”
“Her problem is probably that you called her bar a dive and threatened to sue her.”
“After she ruined my shirt.”
“Accidents happen, Cas.”
I drain my beer, irritation prickling under my skin. “Whatever. I need another drink.”
Thompson’s eyebrows shoot up. “You’re going to the bar? Voluntarily?”
“No.” I shove my empty bottle at him. “You are. Get me a whiskey. Top shelf.”
Thompson rolls his eyes but takes the bottle. “You’re such a princess.”
“That’s NHL All-Star Princess to you.”
I watch him weave through the crowd, stopping to chat with a few teammates before reaching the bar. Ivy’s smile falters slightly when she sees him, her eyes darting in my direction. I hold her gaze, my stare locked. She says something to Thompson, who laughs and shakes his head.
A minute later, Thompson returns with a tumbler of amber liquid.
“Bottoms up, princess.” He hands me the glass with a smirk.
I take a sip and nearly choke. It’s not the smooth, aged whiskey I was expecting, but some bottom-shelf piss that burns all the way down. “What the hell is this?”
Thompson grins, pulling a folded cocktail napkin from his pocket. “She said to give you this.”
I unfold the napkin to find a single word scrawled in blue ink:
Familiar?
The word hangs in the air. What’s familiar? The shitty whiskey? Her? Us? The intentional ambiguity is infuriating.
Heat crawls up my neck.
“The fuck is she getting at?” I crumple the napkin in my fist.
Thompson shrugs, swirling his drink. “Dunno, man. Could be that she just doesn’t like your face.”
I scoff. “Yeah, well, she’s the only one.”
“Debatable.” He grins, dodging when I shove his shoulder. “Seriously though, she’s been like this since we walked in. You piss her off before tonight?”
I glance back at Ivy. She’s wiping down the bar with sharp, deliberate strokes. Same six inches, over and over.
“Not that I remember.”
“Ah. So it’s the not remembering part that’s the problem.”
I shoot him a look. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He smirks. “Nothing. Just saying—maybe you should remember.”
I roll my eyes, but he’s not entirely wrong. There have been... encounters. Post-game celebrations, away-game cities. Women who want a story to tell, a night with an NHL player. It’s part of “the life.”
“If that’s what this is about, she needs to get over it,” I mutter. Something itches at the back of my skull—a half-memory refusing to surface, gone before I can grab it. I shove it down. “Not like I made any promises. I don’t owe her shit.”
“Classy as always.” Thompson raises his glass in a mock salute.
The bar grows louder as more of the team filters in. I spot Coach Wilson in deep conversation with Martin Westfield near the dartboard. Great. The last thing I need is Marty watching me get snubbed by the staff.
“I’m going to sort this out.”
“This should be good,” Thompson chuckles.
I push away from the table and stride toward the bar.
Ivy sees me coming. Her posture shifts—spine straightening, chin lifting, eyes narrowing.
“Another round of that swill you call ‘top shelf’?” I ask, leaning against the bar.
Her smile is razor sharp. “For you, Castel-LINO? Anything.”
“It’s Castel-LAH-no.” The correction sits a half-second too long.
“Is it?” She tilts her head, feigning confusion. “Funny, I could’ve sworn otherwise.”
A surge of heat curls in my gut. She’s enjoying every second of this. My left eyebrow twitches.
“Look, I don’t know what your problem is—”
“Don’t you?” Her voice drops, barely audible over the noise of the bar.
Behind her, the speakers thrash through a wall of synthetic distortion, the singer snarling through something that sounds like an accusation.
Her eyes lock with mine, and there’s something in them—a depth of feeling that catches me off guard. “You don’t even remember, do you?”
I blink, caught off balance. Remember what? I search her face for clues. Her jaw’s locked tight. Her hazel eyes don’t flare—they’ve gone flat and final, like I’m not worth the anger.
“Ms. Hayes!” Martin Westfield’s voice cuts through my confusion. He appears at my side. Hayes. The name catches wrong, like hitting a rut mid-stride. “I wanted to wish you luck with our partnership. The Penalty Box is exactly the kind of establishment the Wolves need to be associated with.”
“Mr. Westfield.” Ivy’s demeanor shifts instantly—professional, if not warm. “Thank you for the opportunity.”
“I see you’ve met our star acquisition.” Westfield claps me on the shoulder, his grip heavy with expectation—the kind that says don’t drop this.
“Oh yes,” Ivy says, her smile not reaching her eyes. “Gabriel and I are getting reacquainted.”
Reacquainted. The word hangs between us like a challenge.
“Excellent,” Westfield says, oblivious to the undercurrent. “I’ll leave you to it.”
The second his crisp navy back is turned, the shorter brunette—Delilah, per the tag pinned crooked on her collar—materializes at Ivy’s elbow. She leans in, murmuring something beneath the heavy, pulsing bass of the room.
Ivy doesn’t look at her. Her eyes stay locked on mine.
With Westfield gone, the polite mask completely shatters. The air between us seems to drop ten degrees.
“Take the front,” Ivy murmurs back to Delilah, her voice barely carrying over the crowd. Her hands move blindly, pulling the knot of her apron loose. “I need air.”
“Got it. Go.” Delilah seamlessly steps into her spot, grabbing a bar towel just as Brock Thompson crowds the rail.
“Hey, D,” Brock says, flashing a crooked, easy grin. “Think we can get two more over here?”
Delilah spins a cocktail napkin his way with a laugh, firing back a flirty retort. The loud, casual banter instantly swallows the space Ivy vacated.
I can barely hear them. I’m staring at the heavy wooden door swinging shut behind the bar, my temples throbbing.
Women have looked at me with annoyance before. With boredom. With hot, explosive anger when I’ve earned it. But what flashed across Ivy’s face wasn’t a flare-up over a bruised ego.
It was bone-deep. The kind that has history. The kind that burns.
And I’m going to find out why.