Page 5 of Shoot Your Shot

My publicist is sure going to love this. Oh well. She’ll clean it up, just like she has all the other messes I’ve made lately.

I’m hardly aware of the body that comes next to me until I feel a fingernail dragging its way down my arm before moving to my leg. I turn my head quickly, and everything begins to swirl. I can just make out the bright red lipstick and bleached-blonde-haired woman beside me.

“Hey, handsome,” she coos, moving that same fingernail up and down my thigh. “Looks like you’re having fun.”

“Fun?” I smirk, shaking my head. “Oh, I don’t know about that, sweetheart.”

“Sure you do,” she whispers, moving her face closer to mine. It’s all blurry, but it’s also all wrong.

Her eyes are blue, not brown. Her hair is too light, not natural and beautiful. She’s not Paige. And because of that, I wish she’d get the fuck away from me. Now.

“Don’t let me fool you. The last fucking place I want to be is here. Next to you,” I gripe, pulling back, but when I do, my head spins more. “I want my wife,” I utter when she tries to touch me again. “You’re not my fucking wife!” I scream, standing quickly but falling back.

“What the fuck, Richard?” a familiar voice suddenly barks at the bartender as I get back onto my feet and sway around. “I called you earlier and told you not to let him get fucked up tonight. And yet here he is.”

“Look, Walker,” Richard says hastily, prepared to defend himself to Walker James, one of my teammates. “I fucking tried to tell him no, but he started having a meltdown. I didn’t want anyone to catch him on video, freaking the fuck out. And until about thirty seconds before you all walked in, he was peaceful.”

“Yeah, and then some fucking girl kept touching my arm and leg,” I grumble, stumbling back to the barstool. “Killing my whole fucking vibe.”

“Fuck you. You have no vibe,” the woman hisses before I feel a hand land on my cheek when she slaps me. “You’re a loser. And a sloppy drunk too.”

Holding my middle finger up, I laugh obnoxiously, unable to help myself even though I look like a tool. “Next time, don’t fucking touch my leg with your long-ass nail without permission.” I shake my head. “My wife would be pissed if she were here.”

“All right, buddy, time for you to go,” another voice says, and right away, I know it’s Logan, just before I feel a hand around my arm.

I turn my head, and even though I know it’s Logan, I fucking fight him.

“Go home to your kid,” I say, pulling back. “I’m hanging out with my friends.”

“These aren’t your friends, Kolt,” he answers with sadness in his tone, and it instantly pisses me off.

What the fuck does he have to be sad about?

“Come on, man. Let’s get you home,” Walker says, coming to my other side. “We can do this the easy way, where you act like the fucking man we know you are and come with us. Or the hard way, where you act like a bitch—like you have been for months—and we can knock you out and fucking drag you out in front of all these people. Your choice.”

I look at Logan. “Pfft. Sterns, you really going to let him talk to me like this?”

Logan squeezes my shoulder. Even when I’m in my drunken stupor, he still reminds me of Klay. “Yeah, man, I am. Because, to be honest, I’m fucking scared for you right now, considering how you’re acting.”

“I’m fucking fine,” I growl, standing up and backing away from them both. “Can’t you see that?”

Like a wild animal being ganged up on, I look between both of them, in fight mode, my chest huffing. But it becomes harder and harder to stand. When I look at Logan and then Walker once more, the room spins. But this time … it never slows down.

I open my eyes and hiss, “Fuck.” I grab my forehead, as if that could numb the stabbing sensation in the center of it, before I sit up, trying to figure out where the hell I am.

“Yeah, I bet your head hurts,” Logan’s deep voice says.

Suddenly, the bedroom light comes on, and I look around to find I’m in his guest bedroom.

“Walker waited around for you to wake up for a few hours, but he wanted to get home to Poppy and get some sleep before practice. But he was here. And if it wasn’t for him helping me carry your ass out, you’d be back on the dirty-ass floor of that bar you seem to like so much.”

Logan doesn’t usually get worked up, but right now, he’s pissed.

“Do you two want a medal or something?” I utter, dragging a hand down my face and feeling like I’m going to puke. But I swallow, keeping it in because I’m not giving Sterns the satisfaction of watching me puke from being drunk.

“Nah. I just want you to come out of it,” he snaps. “Whatever you’re going through, figure it out. Because you’re not going to sabotage my team’s season just because you’re getting fucked up every night.”

“Your team, huh?” I say, shooting up quickly. “Yourteam, Sterns?”

---