Page 3 of War

My little ballerina’s eyes fall to the floor and she flexes her toes as she considers my request. Ten seconds later, she looks up and surprises the hell out of me when she says, “Ava is my name. And okay, I’ll have dinnerwith you, Tyler.”

Seven hours later, I set my cologne on the bathroom counter and head for the door, only to stop when my phone rings.

I can’t help but smile at the name that flashes on the screen. “Hey, Bray,” I say as I grab my keys off the counter.

“She’s still not home.”

My stomach plummets. Fucking Trish. She has one fucking job. Come home. Take care of her kid. Show up.

Okay, it’s three jobs, really, but that’s literally all the responsibility she has. I pay all her damn bills so that she can focus on Brayden. Yet she can’t even bother to do that.

Paying her bills means I know Bray is taken care of, but it also means it’s harder to keep track of Trish. At least when she needed money, she was working.

She didn’t have the kind of job that kept her sober, but it was better than this.

“I’ll be right there.” Teeth gritted, I glance at the clock on the wall. Six forty-five. Dammit. I’m going to be fucking late.

I shake the thought from my head. Right now, Brayden has to be my priority. He probably hasn’t eaten dinner. He’s twelve, the same age I was when I lost my mom. He could make himself a sandwich, maybe even cook if he wanted, but he won’t. The kid is stubborn. He’ll starve himself just so he can tell her he hasn’t eaten.

Trish may deserve the guilt trip, but more than that, Brayden deserves to eat. Every kid does.

As I step out into the hall and lock my door, an image of the woman I met only this morning flashes in my mind. She was mesmerizing. Looked like a fucking mystical fairy, swaying beautifully. Innocent. Pure.

I should have known I couldn’t have her.

Outside of hockey, nothing has ever come easy, and I don’t know why I thought it ever could.

With an aggravated growl, I stalk for the elevator. There’s no way I’ll make it to dinner, and I don’t have Ava’s damn number, so I can’t warn her. Fuck. After the difficulty I had prying her name out of her, I didn’t even try to get her contact info.

Feisty little thing. She probably would have made me work all night for that.

I’ve never met a woman who wasn’t happy to give me her number when I asked. It’s my blue eyes and the tattoos. The muscles don’t hurt either. Neither do my dark hair and fair skin.

Normally it works to my advantage.

Today is the lone exception.

Then again, as coach always says, “Nothing worth it ever comes easy.”

I have a feeling Ava is worth it.

Somehow I’ll make it up to her.

Ava

“Would you like to order a drink, or do you want to wait for the rest of your party to get here?”

With a deep breath in, I make eye contact with the bartender. “I’ll have a dirty martini, please.”

My sister would be so proud. We talked about doing this for years. Move to a city, flirt with boys, drink dirty martinis.

Sex and the City,Emily in Paris, and my personal favorite,Center Stage. We watched every episode of Sex and the City and Emily and Paris, planning our next great adventure. And I’ve lost track of the number of times I’ve seen Center Stage.

“Vodka or gin?”

Mind blanking, I blink up at the woman.

Her eyes soften. “Most women prefer vodka.”

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