25. Scottie Reed #2
It’s spoken with a sharp, ugly nasal drawl from the tallest guy in the group—a massive, thick-necked guy with a dirty-blonde beard and a faded local team hat pulled low over his eyes.
He’s leaning his elbow on the bar, his back to the counter, his eyes scanning the back booths until they land squarely on our corner.
“I’m telling you, it’s him,” the blonde guy says, his voice intentionally loud enough to carry over the jukebox.
He points his beer bottle directly toward our table. “Look at the size of him. That’s O’Connell. The guy who let six goals in against Chicago before he fake-injured his shoulder because he couldn’t handle the heat.”
Cash doesn’t move. He doesn’t even stop chewing. He just keeps his eyes on his plate, his face expressionless, but I can see the muscles in his forearm go rock-hard where he’s holding his fork.
“Cash,” I whisper, my voice urgent. “Ignore it. They’re just looking for a reaction.”
“I am ignoring it,” Cash says, his voice flat, completely devoid of any emotion. He takes a sip of his beer, his eyes fixed on the neon sign across the room.
The guys at the bar see that he’s not looking, and the lack of response seems to fuel them. The blonde guy takes a long step away from the counter, his friends laughing behind him as he begins to drift toward our section of the booth, his sneakers dragging through the sawdust.
“Hey!” the guy calls out. “You lost? Boston’s the other way, man. My kid’s bantam team has a better glove hand than you do. You’re a total joke, O’Connell.”
“Cash…”
But the blonde guy doesn’t stop. He steps right into the clearance between our table and the next, blocking the path. He looks down at me, his eyes bloodshot, a nasty, alcohol-fueled grin spreading across his face.
“Oh, look at this,” the guy says, leaning over our table. “He brought his little red-headed puck-bunny along to keep him warm. What’s the matter, honey? The big league goalie can’t handle the pressure without some jersey-chaser clearing his crease for him? How much is he paying you to—”
“Hey, asshole—” I start, but I don’t even get the rest of the words out.
Cash moves so fast it doesn’t even look real. His left hand punches forward, bunching the front of the guy’s canvas jacket in his fist, and before the blonde guy can even blink, Cash drives his right fist straight into the center of his face.
Blood instantly spurts into his beard, and he stumbles backward, his heels catching on a chair before he crashes hard onto the sawdust floor, knocking empty beer bottles in every direction. He groans, clutching his face as the blood pools through his fingers.
My breath catches in my throat. My heart is hammering against my ribs, adrenaline spiking so hard it makes my fingers tingle.
Cash is always so lighthearted. He’s the guy who sings cheesy duets, laughs off terrible nicknames, and plays along with whatever ridiculous thing is happening around him.
Seeing him like this—completely quiet, totally lethal, and absolutely consumed by a dark, protective rage—does something frantic to my chest.
It’s terrifying, but fuck, it is so hot.
The immediate, unquestioning way he just dropped the guy for speaking to me like that makes a heavy, primal thrill stirs in my stomach.
“Whoa, back off, man! Hey, back off!” the guy’s friend in the flannel shirt yells, his hands up as he quickly steps between Cash and the floor. “We’re leaving! Chill the fuck out!”
They practically trip over each other hauling him out the front door, the little bell above it clanging wildly as it slams shut.
The bar is dead silent.
Cash stands there for a second, his chest heaving, his fists clenched at his sides. When he turns around, the terrifying look on his face softens the exact second his eyes find mine.
He steps over a piece of broken glass, reaching down to grab my forearm. His grip is firm but incredibly gentle as he pulls me out of the booth and up onto my feet.
“Are you okay? Did he touch you?”
“No,” I say, my voice a little breathless. “No, Finn. I’m fine.”
“Good,” he says.
He tosses a twenty onto the table without looking, keeps his hand wrapped tightly around my arm, and marches me straight out into the cool night air.
The wind off the canal cuts right through my sweatshirt, but I barely feel it.
Cash unlocks the van, slides the side door open, and helps me up into the seat. But he doesn’t walk around to the driver’s side.
He stays right there in the open doorway, leaning in, his hands planting on the armrests on either side of my knees, pinning me in.
He’s still breathing hard, his face just inches from mine in the dark, cramped cabin. His knuckles are scraped and bleeding, but he doesn’t seem to notice.
His eyes are locked onto my mouth with a ferocious, heavy focus.
“You’re an idiot, O’Connell,” I whisper, my heart practically in my throat. “You have more stops on this trip. You could have broken your hand on his face.”
“I don’t care,” he says, stepping even closer until his thighs are pressing against the edge of the seat. “I don’t give a shit about the training stops, Scottie. And he doesn’t get to talk down to you. No one does.”
I stay quiet for a beat, trying to convince my brain to just calmly drive to our hotel.
But obviously I fail.
I reach out, my fingers tangling into the damp collar of his t-shirt, and pull him into the cabin. My mouth meets his with a sudden, desperate force that knocks the breath right out of both of us.
Cash lets out a low, rough sound against my lips, his arms coming around my waist to pull me forward against his chest.
“Scottie,” he groans against my mouth, his lips tracing a hot line down to my jaw.
“Shut up,” I whisper, my hands gripping the back of his neck, pulling him back up until his lips are resting against mine again. “Just get in the van and let’s go.”