Page 9 of Tough Score

My uncle is a big man. Six foot two and two hundred and fifty pounds, but I watched the man chase an unwanted customer out of the bar for trying to start a fight in some weird love triangle altercation last week. He's faster and stronger than you'd think. My uncle played running back for his varsity high school team about thirty years ago and his team went on to win four state championships.

Turns out, he's still got it.

And by the looks of it, Charlie has had first-hand experience with pissing off my uncle in the past and getting chased out of the bar… or worse, and he doesn't seem interested in a repeat.

"Fine, I'm leaving. Jesus, can't a guy get a beer or two and make a friend without being harassed?"

"No, he can't," Reeve says. "Not at this bar and not with that girl."

There's a demanding presence about Reeve. I can see in Charlie's eyes that even though Reeve seems laid back and calm with his hands still in his pockets, he knows better than to push his luck with the goalie.

Charlie then sets his eyes back on me as if I'll refute Reeve's claim. Not in this lifetime.

"Sorry Charlie," I say and shrug.

Spoiler alert: I'm not sorry at all.

"Get the hell out of my bar, Charlie," my uncle yells across the room.

Charlie eyes the bar again and then so do I.

My uncle has both of his hands flat on the bar, leaning over it with his sights locked on Charlie as if at any moment he's ready to catapult over the bar top and head straight for the unwelcome customer.

We're now starting to attract more attention, attention that I've become very accustomed to hiding from. Flying under the radar has been my goal since my father went to prison.

"Bye, Charlie," Reeve says, still as cool and calm as ever, not even a warning eyebrow.

Charlie snarls at Reeve and then spins around and heads for the front door. That's when I notice every Hawkeyes player casually rubbernecking to watch Charlie leave. They must have all been aware of what was going on but kept their distance and let Reeve handle it. Based on the fights they got in tonight, I have a feeling that if Charlie hadn't relented so easily, he would have had an entire hockey team to contend with.

"Thanks for doing that," I say, a little shyness in my voice.

It's a little embarrassing that he had to come to my aid, but I doubt Charlie would have left without being told by the six-foot-plus hockey player to ship himself to Timbuktu without a return to sender.

I grab the empty beer bottles that I had originally come by to clear off the table and then set them on my tray.

"It's no trouble. He needed to be told to leave before someone besides me got involved. None of the players or regulars like him. Oakley hates him most of all."

Hearing that Reeve seems to know my uncle well enough to know that, gives me a weird feeling of being the odd man out. Even though my uncle and I are related, these people seem to have a closer connection to him than I do. And that's probably true.

The Fear-Of-Missing-Out is so strong right now and it's the first time I've ever wondered if I should have moved to Seattle sooner. My uncle has created a life inside the world of professional sports that I've always wanted to be a part of and I had no idea until now.

"So, you're the diplomatic one in the group? The peacekeeper? Is that a common trait for a hockey player?" I lift my brow and purse my lips to suppress the smirk.

His lopsided grin turns into a full-fledged smile, indicating that he likes the question.

There's something almost boyish about the way his bright white smile softens his sharp jaw and almond-shaped eyes. But from the neck down, his six-foot-plus stature is anything but soft or boyish. He's full man and hard everywhere, proven by the way his Hawkeyes sweatshirt fits snug against his chest and his corded forearms bulge out from where the sleeves are pushed up his arms, stopping just shy of his elbows.

Just a little bit of tattoo ink peeks past the sleeve of his left arm.

"I promise you; my bite is worse than my bark."

I chuckle at the way he phrased that comment backward.

"I don't think that's how the saying goes."

"Yeah, I know. But I still mean it the way I said it."

My tongue slips out to lick my lower lip unconsciously at the thought of whether or not he's a biter in the bedroom or just a nibbler. Would he leave a mark?

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