Page 3 of Offside Devil

Nope. Fuck no.

I’m not going there. Carson’s unexpected appearance is throwing enough of a wrench in today’s works. The last thing I need to do is add memories of Paige into the mix.

“… you even listening to me?”

I blink and snap back to reality. Princess Nose Piercing is aiming that scowl at me. She doesn’t look happy in the slightest.

“What?” I ask.

She sighs and juts out a hip. “I asked what you would like to order. You’re next in line. This is the part where you tell me which drink you want.”

“You know,” I remark with a grimace, “you might want to work on your bedside manner.”

The barista grimaces like I’m physically wounding her. “Leave it to a pretty boy to bring up ‘beds’ as soon as possible,” she grumbles. “I want to set fire to whichever factory makes people like you.”

“You’re a real spark of joy, aren’t you?”

“I’m covered head to toe in caramel macchiato,” she explains with a flourish, “and you’re the last customer I need to ring up before I can go change—so yeah, I’m a little lacking in the ‘friendly customer service’ department right now.”

I glance at her body for the first time and realize with a jolt that she is in fact drenched from head to toe in thick, syrupy globs of cinnamon syrup. The liquid has her shirt plastered to her curves.

I want to lick her clean, comes a thought out of absolutely nowhere.

“Just give me a black coffee,” I mutter. “And go get some dry clothes. Might help take the edge off your sarcasm.”

“I take back what I said,” she mumbles wearily. “You’re a saint amongst men. That’ll be seven twenty-five.”

I tap my credit card on the tablet, tip her forty percent just because I’m pretty sure it’ll piss her off, then grab the coffee she hands me and go. In the corner of my eye, I see her gratefully jet off for the back hallway.

In the other direction, Coach and Carson are still whispering back and forth. As I watch, Carson guffaws and claps Coach on the shoulder like they’re frat bros exchanging hilarious stories of the good ol’ days.

I do a quick pivot and duck into the bathroom first.

Setting my steaming coffee on top of the paper towel dispenser, I sigh and squint into the mirror.

“Pretty boy,” she called me. She’s not the first. Probably won’t be the last, either. Men in my profession have never had a hard time getting laid. God probably invented the puck bunny because he was a hockey player himself, if I had to guess. They’re everywhere we go—at hotels and bars and stadiums, always ready to go get into something fun at the drop of a hat.

I’ve indulged, probably more than I should.

Paige changed things, though. I still don’t know if I’d call what we had “love.” It was too toxic, too bound up with drugs and bad decisions to deserve a pure label like that.

Whatever it was, it’s taken me off the market permanently. I’m sure Wednesday Addams will be devastated.

I sigh again and splash some water onto my face. I’m picking up my coffee again to go back out and finally sit down with Coach and Carson when I hear something.

Not quite a scream. Not quite a moan.

I step out into the hallway and there it is again. A wavery voice and the thump of something like a confrontation coming from the direction my barista disappeared to.

It feels like there’s a hook in my chest, reeling me closer and closer to the door.

As I approach, I hear a muffled scream.

Then I don’t think anymore. I just act.

3

MIRA

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