Excerpt - The Overtime Kiss
Tyler
Ah, there’s nothing quite like a night off from the kids. Don’t get me wrong—I love those two little stinkers more than I love playing hockey. But an evening without a request for mac and cheese? Without complaints about who got more or whose turn it is to do the dishes? I’ll happily take it.
It’s been so long since I’ve had a free night that I’m barely even sure what to do with my time. After finishing dinner with my agent at a restaurant here in Cozy Valley—a productive meeting where we agreed to focus on making the next season better, both on the ice and with sponsorships—I head to the hotel bar. I’m staying overnight in this small town about forty minutes outside San Francisco, since I’m playing golf tomorrow in a local tournament some friends here roped me into joining. But until tomorrow morning, no one needs me.
When I catch sight of the baseball game on the big screen, I know this is exactly what a perfect night off looks like. The bar has a warm, relaxed vibe, with wood-paneled walls, a long polished counter, and a vintage record player playing a pop tune I won’t admit to my teammates that I know by heart. A row of wooden stools lines the bar, and there’s a faint hum of chatter from a handful of patrons. A woodcut sign boasts brews crafted locally.
I grab a seat, say hello to the bartender, a weathered old dude in a vintage concert T-shirt whose name tag reads Ike. Fitting. He slaps down a coaster and asks, “What’ll it be?”
“Whatever you’ve got on tap,” I say, since I’m not picky, and I bet he thrives on being trusted to pick a beer.
With a quick nod, he says, “You look like a lager type.”
“Works for me.” I settle in, letting the pressure of the past season—a tough one with a new team—melt away as I focus on the game on TV and the cold glass of beer Ike brings me. Trouble is, the game isn’t exactly relaxing. By the second inning, it’s clear the umpire needs to be tossed out.
“Are you kidding me? That was such a strike,” I mutter.
“Nope. It dipped by the outside corner, Tyler. Hanging curve that hung too long,” a confident, feminine voice says. Someone who clearly knows me.
I turn toward the sound, and my brain fractures for a second. It’s like running into your doctor in the cereal aisle—that is, if you have a wildly inappropriate crush on your gorgeous, sassy doctor.
Or your ten-year-old’s ice skating teacher, who’s incomprehensibly here in a small town hotel bar instead of the city where I see her every seven days, but who’s counting .
Sabrina Snow flops down onto the seat next to mine in a cloud of white poof and a lopsided tiara. But she doesn’t look like the polished, pink-cheeked, ponytailed woman who teaches Luna how to execute toe loops every Wednesday afternoon. With her wind-whipped blonde hair, tiara askew, and a wedding dress that seems completely out of character, Sabrina looks like she’s seen better days. Especially since she’s kicking a foot back and forth—and I can’t help but notice she’s wearing mismatched shower slides. One pink, one orange.
“Sabrina?” I blurt out, the cognitive dissonance choking me.
“That’s me,” she says, dryly. Too dryly. Then, she seems to force out a laugh. “Fancy meeting you here.”
“Sure is,” I say since running into this woman on her wedding day was not on my bingo card. Especially since – call it a gut feeling – I’m not sure the groom is around.
“How’s Luna? What’s she up to since I saw you all the other day? Are you having a fun little family getaway?” she asks, but her voice is full of manufactured cheer.
I shake my head. “Nope. The kids are with my mom and her husband.” I’m about to say and you , but I think the better of it. Read the room and all.
But with a level of hope that honestly shames me, my gaze dips to her left hand. That massive rock that’s been mocking me since I met her is still shining brightly, but her smile isn’t. Doesn’t take a genius to know she hasn’t removed the ring yet, but I can make an educated guess — the bling’s on a goodbye tour. I shouldn’t like the fact that she’s single so much. But whether her status is self-induced or not, I make the only offer I can. “Let me buy you a drink. ”
She sighs heavily, like the weight of the world escapes her with that one breath. “I guess it’s obvious I need one.”
I don’t say, Yeah, it seems like your wedding day went sideways, or, What the hell happened? She’ll tell me when she’s ready. Instead, I keep it light. “You are in a bar, so I figured you might want one—context clues and all.”
She gives me the smallest smile that seems to say thanks for that softball answer. With a glance down at her skirt, she gathers some material in her hands, then flicks it dismissively. “I was heading for the local rink, but it was closed. So yeah, it really feels like a tequila kind of day now.”
I’m guessing I’ve got a jilted bride on my hands rather than a runaway one, but I’ve seen enough movies to know the two usually go hand in hand.