Page 3 of Lawson

I turn my gaze on the guy, fastening him with a glare that sizes him up within two seconds.

He's not a total loser, but he rides that edge for sure. At first glance, he looks like a normal, just-out-of-college bro, likely about to take a job at his daddy's business, his hair clean-cut, his clothes preppy.

“I'm sorry, my guy,” I say, drawing on every ounce of bravado I have, and I've got a shit-ton, really. “I completely forgot you were there. Did you need something? Drink money? Need me to call you a Lyft?”

“Fuck you. We were in the middle of a conversation?—”

The sheer hostility in his voice has me stepping in front of the girl, making it so I'm the only thing he sees. And he has to lookupto meet my eyes.

My freshly acquired teammates must notice the move because I hear several of them come stand behind me without a second thought.

Gotta fucking love hockey teams. We've only known each other for about thirty minutes, but they've already got my back. That shows promise for what we'll do this season, but I can't really focus on that now withdouchebagpuffing his chest every five seconds.

“I'm gonna let that one slide because I realize losing someone as stunning as her has to sting. But you have five seconds to either back the fuck up or keep standing here and have the worst night of your life.”

The guy glares up at me, then glances behind me at whoever has come to have my back. He scoffs and shakes his head, grabbing his drink off the bar and stomping to the other side of it, then up the stairs to where the second level is.

I swear I can feel the tension melt out of the girl as I turn to look down at her, her rigid shoulders relaxing, and a long breath sliding past those luscious lips. I nod at the three guys who had my back, shocked as hell to see Stokehill, Ritchford, and motherfucking Kiplin at the ready. Holy shit, I didn't know the veterans would be the first ones to stand up, but I'm not mad about it.

They nod and head off to what they were previously doing.

I bring my attention back to the girl.

“Who the hell are you?” Her tone is sweet with just a hint of sass, apparently something I find irresistible because I lean in closer as I hold her gaze.

“Your hero?” I ask with a wide smile.

“Sure,” she says. “Does my hero have a name? And how did you know about my weakness for Bridgerton?”

“Not your weakness for orgasms?” I fire back.

She laughs. “Seriously, how did you know that I was uncomfortable? You could have easily been putting your arm around a girl who didn’t want to be touched and gotten smacked.”

She’s not wrong.

I shrug. “I have a younger sister,” I admit. “I know the look. And I took a guess with Bridgerton. My sister can't shut up about it and has made me watch every single season. Not a terrible show, figured it might be something you like. You have to admit, it made the whole boyfriend bit seem more tangible to douchebag up there.” I glance upward where the second-floor balcony overlooks the bar below, catching said douchebag watching us.

Creepy much?

“I am sorry about the non-consenting touch,” I continue, drawing my focus back to her. I nod to her shoulder where I touched her, doing my best not to think of all the other places I'd like to touch her, especially after how well she’d reacted to me earlier during our little ruse.

“I appreciate the apology,” she says, her eyes shifting over me in a more curious way, like she's trying to figure me out. “But it's all good. Trust me, if I hadn't wanted you to touch me, you wouldn't have been able to.” She casually glances behind me. “I appreciate the save,” she says, looking at me again. She grabs her drink and pushes away from the bar. “I need to walk, too many eyes on us here. Stroll with me, hero?”

The fucking flirty look she gives me has me standing at attention and offering her my arm like I’ve seen those Bridgerton dudes do.

Who the fuck is this girl? And how does she have me smitten already? I'm the leader, not the other way around, but this girl has me following her around the bar like a lost puppy.

“Sodoesmy hero have a name?” she asks as we make our way past my team and toward the now vacant indoor miniature golf course. She grabs a club and a ball, and I immediately follow her lead.

“Lawson,” I say, watching her line up her ball and expertly evade every obstacle in her way before it sinks into the hole. “Shit, are you a golfer?”

She laughs and shakes her head, stepping out of the way so I can make my shot. “No, but this is the best bar in Bangor, so I've spent my fair share of time here.”

I nod, taking a shot. I get close to the hole but miss it by an inch.

“Ouch,” she teases.

“I'm used to people standing in front of my goal,” I say as we move on to the next hole. “Not oversized solo cups.”

---