Page 10 of Mr. Charming

“I do, through Aiden Drake.” I grab my helmet and wait for the next question.

“She gonna make you guys run around doing bullshit media tours and crap?”

I walk toward Coach, chuckling. “Yeah, she is.”

“I thought so. You know, I didn’t mind Gill that much. He was shit at his job, but at least he wasn’t interrupting my plans and my time with the team.”

I liked Gill too. He was hard on the eyes and didn’t make me regret all my life decisions.

“Well, it’s good for the team, right? What’s good for the team is good for us?” My line is complete bullshit.

“Don’t throw that optimistic crap at me. Go get on the ice. I have to keep you in shape before our new drill sergeant comes to town.” He smacks me on the back, and I head out.

As my skates glide onto the ice, only one thought comes to mind—what will it be like to be in Tedi’s orbit again?

Six

Tedi

I’m a rip-the-Band-Aid off kind of girl. Always have been. So I get Tweetie’s address—which isn’t hard since he lives at The Nest, a condo building he shares with his teammates on the north side of Chicago that has a bar underneath called Peeper’s Alley.

It’s a well-known destination for all the puck bunnies that, from the rumors around the league, Tweetie likes to entertain. It’s embarrassing how much he’s gotten around since we broke up. Embarrassing and heart-wrenching, not that I’d ever let anyone know that second part.

I tip the Uber guy on the phone and walk across the sidewalk. They’re off today, so I assume he’ll be home, sleeping off a hangover. My attention is drawn to a sign written in girly script with a black Sharpie that reads, The Nest, that’s been fixed to the gate. God, it’s worse than I thought. Notes are taped to the sign with phone numbers and promises of a good time, all fixed with pieces of chewed gum. How can he even live here?

I press his buzzer, which just has the number for his unit, no last name. So, it’s okay for every warm-blooded female to know that three of the Falcon players live here, but they can’t know which condo they’re in? Men.

No one answers. I try to sneak a peek through the security gate, but it’s pretty well blocked with thick black mesh. So I press the button again and wait, looking around the area.

At least he chose a pretty awesome area to live, right by the Colts’ stadium and all the bars.

After a bit, I pull out my phone to check the time. I’m not going to leave here and think about this inevitable meeting between us all night. My first day to report with the team is tomorrow, and I want to deal with the awkwardness between us before then.

I press the number two buzzer. Surely one of the other players will let me up.

Still no answer.

Finally, I press the number one, but that’s a failure too.

I grunt, annoyed that Tweetie is making even this difficult, regardless of if he knows or not. My gaze veers to the sign above the bar. Fuck it, I’ll have a drink and hope he’s back by then.

I open the door of Peeper’s Alley to find a typical sports bar with televisions lining almost every inch of wall space. At least the inches where the Chicago sports team paraphernalia isn’t hung, most of which is the Falcons. I dodge examining Tweetie’s jersey and head right to the bar.

“We’re not open.”

I thumb toward the door. “But it was unlocked.”

The older red-haired woman puts her hands on her hips and looks me over. “It’s really sad, you know.”

“What is?” How could I have possibly offended this woman when she just met me?

“That you allow your hormones to take over your common sense. Do you see them in here? No. They don’t sit in a bar in the middle of the afternoon.” She points at the door. “I open in fifteen minutes. Go wait on the sidewalk or go back home, I don’t care.” She turns away from me.

I huff. I could listen to her—she’s definitely a “I’ll take you down if you cross me” type, but so am I, so let’s get scrappy. But first, I’ll kill her with kindness.

“Listen, I’m sorry, but I think you’re mistaking me for someone else. I’m not here for one of your employees. I just need to have a drink and wait for one of the residents upstairs to get home.”

She groans. “They’re all taken.”

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