Chapter 3 Colt #2
"It means dial back the charm offensive, pretty boy." Delaney stands, smoothing her skirt. "She's not like the other women you flirt with, Colt. She's got a life. A good one. And a daughter who comes first, second, and third. So if you want her to trust you, you're going to have to earn it."
Earn it?
When's the last time I had to earn anything? My whole life has been a series of performances, each one designed to generate the approval I needed to survive. Smile for the scouts. Charm the sponsors. Entertain the fans.
But Zoey doesn't care about any of that.
Delaney pops one last gummy bear, her smile knowing. "Good luck, Lane. Something tells me you're going to need it."
I leave the office with my heart beating too fast and my mind already racing toward tomorrow.
I'm halfway to the exit, mind still spinning with images of Zoey behind the counter, when I nearly walk face-first into a brick wall.
A brick wall that breathes.
"Shit—" I stumble back, catching myself against the corridor wall.
Gabe Devereaux stands there like a monument to bad timing, all six-foot-six of him blocking the hallway. His dark eyes meet mine, and for a half-second, neither of us moves.
Fuck. This is the man who put me in hospital.
The man whose half-finished dick portrait is permanently inked on my left ass cheek because Quinn never got to finish before I escaped her tattoo chair.
The man who, despite everything, I've somehow… mostly forgiven.
Because that's what my parents taught me to do, right? We push through. We don't hold grudges because grudges are messy, and messy doesn't win championships.
"Lane." Gabe's voice is a low rumble.
"Devereaux." I straighten, rolling my shoulder like the near-collision didn't rattle me. "You know, most people use doors. Not... lurk in hallways. What you doing out here?"
Gabe rubs the back on his neck. "I, uh… I just came from my session."
Therapy. Right. The whole team knows Gabe's been working through his anger shit with a professional since the incident. Good for him. Great, even.
Doesn't make this less awkward.
"Cool, cool." I nod, shoving my hands in my pockets. "How's that going? Learning to use your words instead of your fists?"
Shut up, Colt.
But my mouth never listens to my brain. Never has.
Gabe's expression doesn't change, but something flickers in those dark eyes. Guilt, maybe. Or exhaustion. It's always too damn hard to tell with this guy.
"You seen the guys?" he asks instead of responding. "Samuel said you were coming in today."
"Yeah. Just had a meeting with Delaney." I gesture vaguely toward the executive wing. "Got assigned to some community partnership thing while I'm benched."
Because you benched me, I don't add.
But here's the thing my brain won't stop doing as I stare up at his face. It's connecting dots I didn't ask it to connect.
Gabe's hit put me in hospital. The resulting concussion has kept me side-lined. And being side-lined meant Delaney needed something for me to do.
And that something is... Butter Batch.
So technically, technically, this giant, brooding, skate-throwing motherfucker standing in front of me is responsible for the best thing that's happened to me in months.
Gabe shifts his weight, arms crossing over his massive chest.
"Look man, I gotta go. But are you, uh." He clears his throat. "Heading to the Lounge later?"
I blink. "Are you... inviting me for drinks?"
"The guys are going. After we finish the weight session in the Clawhouse." His expression is pained, like this conversation is physically hurting him. "Thought you might want to... you know." His ears are going red. "You've been away for a bit, so... whatever."
It's the most awkward olive branch in the history of olive branches.
And I, because I am fundamentally incapable of letting a beautiful moment exist without ruining it, can't resist.
"Devereaux." I press a hand to my chest. "Are we bonding right now?"
He rolls his eyes and grunts. "Don't start, Colt."
"No, no, no—" I grin, stepping forward to clap him on the shoulder. The muscle under my palm is like granite. "I'll be there. Wouldn't miss it. This is growth, big guy. I'm proud of you."
His jaw clenches so hard I hear his teeth grind. "I should have hit you harder."
"Too late now!" I call after him as he stalks toward the Clawhouse, his massive frame disappearing through the doors with a grunt that echoes off the walls.
I watch him go, still grinning.
The distant clank of weights filters through before the door swings shut, and I'm left alone in the corridor with a thought I never expected to have:
Maybe getting my skull cracked wasn't the worst thing that ever happened to me.
The Leopard Lounge at night is everything a hockey bar should be.
Sports play on the flatscreens mounted behind the bar, the commentary muted but the energy unmistakable. The scent of Lars's famous honey-glazed chicken wings hangs thick in the air. Smoky, sweet, with that kick of cayenne pepper that makes your lips tingle and your fingers reach for another.
All around, the leather booths are worn soft from years of celebrations, lining the back walls with endless families, friends and townsfolk.