Page 42 of Twisted Collide

I pluck my phone from my back pocket and press call on my pinned contact. The call goes straight to voicemail. Disappointment stabs at my chest. There’s only one person I want to talk to right now: my sister, and her phone is off.

“Hey—Um, call me.” I hang up, tucking my cell back where it belongs, and continue my trek to the bar.

It takes me five minutes to drive there, and the only cars in the parking lot are the ones my teammates own.

This place actually holds promise. If we’re the only ones here, I won’t have to deal with the bullshit of people wanting to talk to me. Or worse . . . ask for pictures and autographs.

Throwing my car into park, I open the door and head inside, dragging my feet even after seeing the near empty lot.

The place is dark; only a few lights hang over the bar, and besides that, maybe one or two recessed lights illuminate the space.

My shoes stick to the dirty floors as I head to the bar, where I see Hudson, Mason, and Wolfe.

Aiden isn’t here.

That’s not a surprise since he spends most of his free time with Cassidy.

“Sin, didn’t think you’d show up,” Wolfe says, holding a fist out to bump.

“Here I am,” I deadpan. Everyone here knows I don’t want to be here, but Hudson was laying it on thick that I needed to hang with them tonight, so I came.

“What’s your deal, bro? Coach looked ready to kill you,” Hudson says, getting right to the heart of this little get-together and his insistence I show.

Guess I should have known what this was about. Practice was especially brutal, and not because Coach did anything differently. I was just off my game, epically.

The guys insisted I come here so they could figure out why I’m skating like shit. It’s written all over every one of their faces.

Not going to happen.

Fuck no, am I telling them that the team’s new intern is the reason I’m distracted. The reason I’m playing like a newbie.

Hudson nudges me with his elbow. “A drunk penguin has better balance than you had today.”

“You’re such an asshole,” Mason says, shaking his head.“But really, man, you good? You seem off . . . and not just at practice.”

“I’m fine.” My fingers drum on the bar. This was a bad idea.

I don’t talk about feelings and whatnot. Not with Molly, if I can help it, and definitely not with these jokers.

“You know you can talk to us,” Mason says, with far too much concern for my liking.

“I said I was good,” I practically growl.

Mason raises his hand in surrender. “Okay, I’m done. But if—”

“Thought you said you were done?” I fire back, leveling him with a look that says he better shut the hell up.

“Jeez, get this man a drink.” Hudson raises his hand, and the moment he does, I see why this is his favorite dive bar. “Whiskey?”

“Yep,” I mutter, reaching into my back pocket to grab my wallet.

“There will be none of that. Drinks are on me.” Hudson looks at the bartender with a smirk.

Great, I’m here to watch him flex for this girl. That is the last thing I need.

I’m already pissy for playing like shit at practice, and now I have to watch Hudson shoot his shot and inevitably win whatever game he’s playing.

“Oh, there she is,” Mason lifts his hand to wave someone over, and I pivot to see who he’s waving to.

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