Page 57 of The Spice Play

“Do you genuinely think he cares about you?” he snapped, his tongue dragging over his canines as he looked down at me. Adrenaline built up from that look — like I was prey, like I was about to be eaten alive by wolves that couldn’t give a shit whether it hurt or went quick. Thecrowd behind him cheered as the puck slammed into a net on the television. “He doesn’t care about anything besides his son. He barely cares abouthockey. But by all means, keep fucking the guy. It won’t get you anywhere.”

“Mind your fucking business,” I said, but the words fell flat and were too quiet, too weak. Bile crept up my esophagus. I was angry and bitter, and for once, I wasn’t sure if Bryan was just being an asshole or if he was speaking the truth. But it bothered me that he knew about it, bothered me that he felt confident enough about it to say something to me — and it bothered me that he wasn’t getting up and walking away. He was as comfortable as could be beside me.

“If you came home withme…” he smirked, leaning toward me just enough to send my heart rate skyrocketing. Confidence dripped from him, but it was arrogant, foolish, self-centered, andGod, I knew that type, knew it like the back of my hand, had been engaged to it. “I care about a lot of things, Nelly. Why don’t you show me just how many services you offer?”

“Leave her alone, Addaway.”

The man behind the bar, much older than the one who had been here when I’d come with Rosie, stood with his arms on the plastic-covered countertop and a stern look on his wrinkled face. Grey hair fell in short, straight strands around the edges of his face, his beard barely more than stubble, his body lithe but lean and somehow intimidating despite being three-quarters of the height of Bryan.

“There are plenty of flames here. Find one,” he added.

With a disgruntled huff, Bryan shot a glare in my direction before sliding off the seat and disappearing into the crowd around the television.

“Thank you,” I squeaked, swallowing down the panic that had risen far too much. My mouth was dry and felt rawwith every inhale, but I had my window now — I could go if I wanted to.

“You okay?” the man asked, standing up straight as his gaze bounced from me to the crowd.

“I’m fine,” I lied. “Do you know him?”

He cracked the smallest little grin, and grabbed a glass from beneath the counter. He tapped the side of the Blue Moon dispenser, a single brow raising as a silent question, and I sighed and nodded. Guess I wasn’t leaving. “I know all the boys. My son plays for them.”

If I was going to talk to anyone here, this guy seemed like the least bad choice. “Who?”

“Xavi,” he chirped, slipping the glass beneath the nozzle and pulling. “Number 42. His jersey says Moreau. Best defense on the NHL if you ask me.”

I had a vague recollection of seeing him around, and on the ice, and if my memory served me well, he was a bright-eyed younger guy with light brown hair, a little shorter than Sebastian, and wickedly fast on the ice. “I think I’ve met him,” I said by way of thanks as he passed me the beer. “How much?”

“On the house.” He winked at me, and something about the calmness of him made me feel like that wink wasn’t creepy. “I used to play when I was younger, you know. Before I lost all my muscle, and opened a bar. Name’s Gabby.” He reached across the bartop and plonked a slice of orange into my beer.

“Nice to meet you, Gabby. Thanks,” I swallowed, slowly turning in my barstool to face him fully. “What position were you?”

“Right wing, back in Alberta. Xavi grew up in it all,” he said. “You sure you’re okay? You look a little shell-shocked.”

“Do I?” Was it that obvious that I’d had blow after blow after blow for the last week?

“You want to talk about it?” he asked, leaning forward on the counter again but this time dropping down to his elbows, putting him lower than me. “I’ve heard I’m a great listener. Though Xavi likes to say I can’t hear a damned thing.”

I chuckled half-heartedly as I sipped at my beer. “As tempting as that sounds, I don’t know if you’d be of much more help than telling Bryan to fuck off.”

He hummed his disagreement, his fluffy brows raising. “Try me.”

Sighing, I set my glass down, contemplating if it was worth it to bring it all up to someone so close to the team — but if Bryan knew, there had to be others. I could keep names to myself and hope for the best. But I didn’tknowGabby, and he didn’t know me, and I was surrounded by chaos in here with the possibility of literally anyone overhearing. It made me nauseous just to think about laying it all out for a stranger to dissect, but maybe that’s what I needed. Maybe my reluctance to make good choices would work out for once.

“Or don’t,” he offered, shrugging.

“I’m sleeping with a player,” I said quietly.

“Well, I gathered that much.”

“But I’m also his child’s nanny,” I added.

His brows rose again before coming down and knitting together, his upper lip wiggling as he scratched his mustache. “Right.”

“And I think wires are getting crossed for me,” I admitted, the relief almost palpable to say it to anyone that wasn’t Rosie.

“You have feelings for him, you mean,” he said. Thewords were so casual, so plain, that I almost wanted to deny it and tell him it was insane and he was wrong, but all he’d done was succinctly summarize my words. I averted my gaze, staring at the little bubbles rising in the light amber beer. “Does he have feelings for you?”

“Doubtful,” I huffed. “He said some horrible things to me last week after the game. I didn’t let him apologize for it, which, who knows, maybe that was wrong of me. But I have a history with that kind of thing and I couldn’t sit there and listen to him accept wrongdoing when I know from experience that it will likely just happen again.”

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