Page 4 of Hooking Up with the Hockey Player

Brit looks at me when I stand, eyebrows raised in question. “I’m going to get another drink. Anyone else need anything?”

She glances down the table at the others ensconced in their own conversations and shakes her head. “Don’t worry about us. We’ll grab our own when we’re ready.” As I’m about to head toward the bar, she puts her hand on my wrist. “Don’t be shy when you get up there, okay? It’s loud and busy in here. If the bartender doesn’t notice you, don’t be afraid to move right in front of him and get his attention.”

Forcing a grin, I nod at her advice. “Got it.”

It’s clear she’s figured me out enough to realize I’d likely stand there forever waiting to get noticed. Even with her advice, that’s still not outside the realm of possibilities.

I’m just not a very forward person.

It’s a fact I’ve come to accept about myself, even if I realize that sometimes—like in a busy bar when I want a drink—it doesn’t serve me all that well. Sucking in a deep breath, I mentally prep myself to be more assertive than I normally am.

But the crowd at the bar basically forms a wall. I don’t even see a way in. There’s being assertive to get the bartender’s attention, then there’s elbowing my way through a group of people. Fortunately, a few people break away from the bar, beers in hand, heading toward the pool tables and dart boards, and I slip into the gap they leave before it can close up again.

Of course, the bartender’s now at the other end of the bar, talking to a customer, his back to me. Tapping my fingers on the bar, I try to wait patiently for him to turn this way.

I know Brit said not to be afraid to get his attention, but he’s with a customer …

Biting my lip, I debate whether I should try moving to the other end of the bar or keep waiting here.

“Did it hurt?” a voice asks from my left.

At first, I don’t realize he’s talking to me. But then he leans close to me, pressing his shoulder into my side. “Hey there, beautiful. I’m talking to you. Did it hurt?”

My eyebrows pull together in confusion, and I look at him, taking in the dark side-swept bangs he pushes out of his brown eyes and grubby graphic T-shirt, then down at myself, then back at him again. “Did what hurt?”

He grins widely. “When you fell from heaven?”

The guys around him erupt in a chorus of guffaws, and he takes a triumphant sip of his beer. I look at the two other guys sitting on the bar stools on his other side—also clad in graphic tees and shorts with similar hairstyles, one with a baseball hat on backwards—then back at him, entirely unimpressed.

They’re young, probably early twenties. There’s a solid chance they’re here to celebrate one of their twenty-first birthdays.

Still grinning, the first guy swivels and turns toward me. “What’re you drinking, beautiful?”

His casual use of the endearment makes me uncomfortable. “I’m just waiting for the bartender to look this way,” I murmur, wanting to shake off his attention. I take a half step back, hoping that’s enough to dissuade him. I don’t want to lose this spot, though, because there are people all around the bar. If I step back all the way, I don’t know where I’ll be able to find another opening to get to the bar again, and then I’ll never get a drink. Why can’t these guys just leave me alone?

“Well, we can help you with that, can’t we, boys?”

They all make rowdy sounds of agreement, one of them yelling, “Sigma Phi!” and it occurs to me why they seem vaguely familiar. These are the quintessential frat boy types I saw and did my best to avoid back in college. But their obnoxiousness has one positive—the bartender glances our way, holding up a finger to indicate he’ll be with us after he’s done pulling the beers he’s currently filling.

“Toldja we’d help you out,” Frat Boy Number One says, turning to face me again. “Now how ‘bout you help me out with your name?”

Pursing my lips and narrowing my eyes, I shake my head. “No thanks.”

He chuckles, like I just told a funny joke. “Okay. We’ll circle back to that. What’re you drinking?” When I don’t respond, he leans in again. “Aw, c’mon. How’re we supposed to order your drink if you won’t tell us what it is?”

The other two chime in with, “Yeah, gorgeous,” and, “Tell us your name! Don’t leave us hanging!”

I’m stuck, unsure what to do, because I don’t want to tell these overgrown toddlers my name, since that will only encourage them, but I don’t want to ignore them either, because that could go very badly very quickly.

Thankfully, the bartender walks up—a guy a little older than me with close-cropped hair and a goatee wearing a faded Green Day T-shirt that looks like he got it at a concert over a decade ago—wiping his hands on a bar towel and making eye contact with me. “What can I get you?”

I force my voice out as loud as I can without shouting. “A cosmo, please.”

“Coming right up.” The bartender glances at the frat boys and back at me, and he must read something in my posture that clues him into the fact that their attention is unwelcome. He jerks his head toward the other end of the bar. “There’s more room over here.” Then without waiting to see if I move, he turns and starts pulling the ingredients for my drink.

Relieved, I follow his directions. It’s clearly a lie, which is beyond obvious once I get around to the other end of the bar, as there’s no more room at all. But it’s quieter, populated by a few older men watching a game on the TVs above the bar, a couple who seem to be on a date, and a foursome who, based on their conversation, are in town on vacation. Everyone ignores me, though, which is far more welcome than the frat boys who can’t read the room. It’s a toss-up on whether it’s because they’re too drunk or too arrogant to notice.

While I wait for my drink, I survey the bar, my gaze snagging on the big corner booth where a trio of very attractive men sit, their shoulders hunched in that way broad-shouldered men do when they’re trying to make themselves fit better in what they perceive as a small space, all dressed in T-shirts, drinking beers, laughing and talking. Two women are with them, flanking the three men, and the guy in the very middle of it all—with startling blue eyes I can make out from here and dark hair that’s getting shaggy and looks in need of a trim—is clearly the odd man out.

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