Page 10 of King

“I’ve got forty says he misses,” Atlas says, pulling out his wallet.

“I’ll cover that,” Drake says with a wink.

“Anyone else want in on this action?” Stone asks, taking out his money.

“I’m good,” North says, holding up a hand.

Rafferty and I both shake our heads.

We all watch as Drake bends over the table and carefully lines up his shot, his focus laser-like, much the way he is in net as our goalie. Slowly, he draws his stick back just a few inches and gives the cue ball the most delicate tap imaginable. Yet somehow, it has a punch to it and it makes athwackagainst the eight ball. It swiftly rolls to the bumper, angles away and rolls all the way down the green to sink cleanly into the pocket.

“Holy shit,” Rafferty exclaims.

“Damn,” Stone grumbles, fishing the money out of his wallet. “You’ve gotten good.”

“Yeah, turns out… Brienne has a pool table and I’ve been practicing just for this occasion.”

Drake is engaged to the Titans’ owner, Brienne Norcross, and they’ve been living together in her mansion with his three little boys for some time now.

“And where is our esteemed owner tonight?” Atlas asks just as Chrissy returns with beers.

“London,” Drake says, taking a moment to order him and Stone a beer before she leaves. I sneak a glance at the pretty blond and fuck… she is staring right at me with hopeful eyes.

I drop my gaze and grab my water, turning back to Drake. “Why’s she in London?”

“Can’t say,” Drake deadpans.

“Can’t say because you don’t know or can’t say because you can’t say?” I press.

“Can’t say. It’s a secret.”

“Really?” Stone drawls with interest, leaning his elbow on our table.

Drake grins at him. “Really.”

“Not even a hint?”

“Not even a hint,” he confirms. “But if it goes the way I think it will, sports tongues are going to be wagging.”

That was cryptic and intriguing as hell. What kind of sports would Brienne Norcross be interested in based out of London? Or is it a hockey player? But that doesn’t make sense because that’s Callum’s job.

Chrissy returns with the beers for Stone and Drake and we all hoist our bottles—mine being plastic and filled with water—to toast the win against the Cold Fury. We play partners in pool, me and Drake against Stone and North, all with a bunch of smack talk and ribbing. Drake really is quite good and we kick Stone’s and North’s asses soundly but there’s no money exchanged on that game.

Stevie ends up wheeling out a huge cake for her dad with two candles denoting his age of fifty-seven. The entire bar sings a rousing version of “Happy Birthday” and then slices are passed around.

“I’m heading out,” Drake says as he drains the last of his beer.

“It’s still early,” Stone grumbles. “And I got a free night without the old ball and chain. You can’t bail now.”

“It’s cute that you call Harlow that,” Drake drawls, patting the top of Stone’s head. “Especially since you’ve bitched and moaned all night she was out with her friends.”

“Whatever,” Stone says dismissively, but we all know he’s full of shit. The guy can barely go fifteen minutes without mentioning his fiancée in some sappy way. “But come on… one more beer.”

“Can’t,” Drake says, patting his pocket for his keys, which he pulls out to twirl on his finger. “Colby and Tanner have a hockey game tomorrow morning.”

“No kidding,” I say, draining my second bottle of water. “What about Jake?”

“His league has their games on Tuesday nights.”

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