Page 3 of Offside Bride

My eyes adjust to the dim lighting, scanning the crowd for Owen. Andshe’sthere—tucked in a booth at the far end of the bar, chatting excitedly with Emily, waving her hands around as she speaks. Emily says something and she laughs. It’s a grand, theatrical laugh, and it’s so Maggie—her wide grin on full display as she throws her head back. Those perfectly straight teeth, almost unreal with how white they are, especially contrasting with her ruby red lipstick. Those pouty lips, so dangerous and wicked. The phantom memory of how it felt to kiss them assaults my thoughts. Even now, from across the bar, I can feel them…and smell her sweet perfume that’s unique to her.

I’m convinced she wears liquid pheromones all over her skin. How else can I explain how drawn to her I am?

I gotta get out of here.

Suddenly my clothes feel abnormally itchy. Is it hot in here? The last of the summer humidity has waned off as we go into September, but it’s verifiably balmy in The Crowned Loon today. Too many bodies. Mostly guys. The Rugby World Cup is on almost all the screens, and it’s rowdier in here than usual. And that’s saying a lot for The Crowned Loon.

I’m about to dip outside and text Owen to meet me at the corner when I see Maggie scooting out of the booth. Heading to the restrooms, I guess. She’s halfway across the bar when I notice a couple guys following her. It’s not just coincidence. They definitely have their eyes on her, making a beeline her way.

Dammit, why didn’t Emily go with her? Don’t girls like to go to the bathroom together?

Before I know what I’m doing, I find myself moving in on the guys that are following Maggie. One of them falls behind a few steps (the wingman, probably) while the other one, a bulky guy with a buzz cut, is stalking toward Maggie. They’re both piss-drunk and can barely walk a straight line.

The bar is packed, filled with riotous rugby fans—most of them filled with too much beer, and I have to shove through crowded tables and chairs.

I tell myself I’m just going to observe. I’m not gonna get involved…unless Maggie really needs me. Which she doesn’t. She most definitely doesn’t. She’s made that clear from day one. And even if she did, I’m the last person she’d want to come riding in on a white horse.

But as soon as I see Buzz Cut Guy reach out his hand toward Maggie’s perfectly fit butt, the already dim bar turns to dust, and I am a bull seeing red, locked on my target. She’s wearing a tight pair of jeans on that perfectly fit butt, and I don’t know if the dude is aiming to squeeze it or pinch it, but I go from zero tosixty in one-point-five seconds, shoving him to the floor just as his hand cops a feel.

In what I can only describe as seismic activity of epic proportions, Maggie whips around, her dark, dark crop of hair flying back over her shoulder. There’s a crack in the universe with her sudden movement, and the stale air in the bar shocks cold, like the ominous minutes before a storm.

This is what I experience in the half a second after I shove Buzz Cut Guy out of the way, and since I’m left standing in his place, it’s my face where Maggie’s angry fist lands. Right in the jaw.

Her expression goes from feral rage, to surprise, to utter disgust.

I’m quick to point at the guy on the floor. “It was him!”

I’m hoping my face is saying,“I’m not the guy who squeezed your butt. I’m the guy who saved you. I’m the hero in this scenario.”

Maggie doesn’t seem to care. In fact, I’m beginning to think she’d infinitely prefer Buzz Cut Guy over me. I don’t blame her, really. But at least when I had my hands all over her at Owen’s wedding, I asked permission first. That has to count for something, right?

My mouth is dry. If I had a brain cell working right now to say something—anything—to her, the big lump in my throat wouldn’t allow it anyway. I’m just standing here like a big, useless slab of flesh. Nothing but a heavy, dumb animal with my feet cemented to the floor.

It barely registers when her beautiful face shifts, eyes widening, and she yells, “Watch out!”

Being the dumb animal that I am, I simply stare at her as if to say“Huh?”

Then a chair crashes against my back.

I crumble to the floor, only slightly injured. I take worse hits on the ice. But as I raise my eyes, I see none other than Buzz Cut Guy standing over me. There’s drool on his chin, and he’s got a ragey look on his face. He’s coming for more now that I’m down. But he’s drunk, and I guarantee I outweigh him in the muscle department.

He wants to brawl? I’m ready.

But before I get off the beer-soaked floor, Maggie roars. It’s a cute, feminine growly roar that turns into a war cry of sorts. All I know is I wouldn’t want to be on the other side of it, especially as her foot makes swift and forceful contact with the guy’s groin.

He stumbles back, crashes into the group of guys behind him, and topples their table over with his weight. All three men at the table are huge. Viking huge. Pints of beer, onion rings, and loaded potato skins slide onto the floor—along with Buzz Cut Guy.

The Vikings leap to their feet, trying to avoid the food and beer mess, and also because they’re mad as hell. I hear them shout profanities at Buzz Cut Guy as one of them grabs him by the shirt and hauls him up. Meanwhile, his wingman stumbles over to stand up for his friend. He takes a swing at one of the guys and misses, of course. He’s three sheets to the wind and can hardly stand up straight, so I don’t know why he thought joining the fight would be a good idea. They’re outnumbered three to two. Wingman gets tossed aside but stupidly comes back for more, swinging haphazardly. One of the angry Vikings (a red-haired man with a long beard) picks up Wingman under his armpits as if he didn’t weigh more than a toddler—and outright throws him.Throwshim.

Another guy, who happens to be passing by, gets caught in the crossfire. Wingman crashes into him so he, of course, gets upset and grabs the nearest thing he can reach—an empty bottle—and tosses it at the table of Vikings.

This turns into a face-off with three groups of guys: the original idiots, the Vikings, and the friends of bottle-throwing guy. Let’s call the third group ‘collateral damage’ since they have no chance of making it out of here with their noses intact.

I wish I were making this up, but it gets worse. Buzz Cut Guy turns and points to Maggie and me and screams, “Get ’em!”

Next to me, Maggie says, “Oh crap.”

We take one look at each other, and for a split second, I swear there’s this spark of telepathy.

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