Page 40 of The Pucking Wrong Rookie

“Please don’t touch me again,” she said, her voice low but firm. She muttered something under her breath to the guy working next to her—a tall, gangly kid who looked like he wanted to melt into the floor—and then untied her apron, tossing it onto the counter.

Without another word, she walked toward the back exit, her head held high, but I didn’t miss the way her shoulders tensed. Miller watched her go with a smirk.

I glanced at my glass, pretending to take a sip, but my eyes tracked her every move. When the door swung shut behind her, I set my drink down and stood, crossing the room quickly, weaving through the crowded bar with my head down. I pushed open the back exit, stepping into the dimly lit alley behind the building.

The bartender was leaning against the brick wall, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, a tear sliding down her cheek. She jumped when she saw me, her eyes narrowing in suspicion. “What do you want?” she asked, furiously wiping at her face.

“Busy night?” I asked, my voice casual.

Her eyebrows raised as she stared at me. I could see her trying to figure out if she recognized me or not. Finally she nodded. “Always is when a team’s in town,” she said, her voice flat.

I nodded, keeping my tone light. “You get a lot of the players in here?”

“Some,” she said, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Why? You a fan?”

“Not exactly,” I replied, a smirk pulling at the corner of my mouth. “Bet it gets exhausting, though.”

“What?”

“Dealing with assholes all the time,” I answered, leaning against the brick and trying to look unassuming—kind of difficult when you’re a six-foot-four, tatted-all-over hockeystar.

I liked to refer to myself as such because it was good to manifest greatness.

“Are you another of thoseassholes?” she asked, wiping at her face again as more tears fell.

“I try not to be,” I said honestly. “I’d like to help.”

She snorted, shaking her head. “Guys like you don’t help.”

I held up my hands, palms out. “You’ve had a rough night, and I’ve got a solution.”

Her brow furrowed, but she didn’t move. “A solution?”

I pulled the vial from my pocket, holding it up between two fingers. “For that guy. Just a few drops in his drink, and he’ll be out of your hair for the rest of the night.”

She stared at the vial, her expression unreadable. “What is that?”

“Nothing dangerous,” I said smoothly. “Just enough to give him the shits until morning.”

That was a lie, it was going to make him sicker than that, plus get him suspended when the NHL drug tested him. But it wouldn’t kill him, so really that was all the information she needed.

“You’re seriously asking me to drug a professional hockey player?”

I shrugged. “It will make you feel better.”

Her lips twitched like she wanted to smile, but she crossed her arms tighter. “Why should I trust you?”

“Because you don’t deserve to deal with assholes like him,” I said, staring at her. “And because if anyone asks, you had nothing to do with it.”

She hesitated, her eyes flicking between me and the vial.

“Don’t you want to take back some of your power? Finally get back at the idiots you have to deal with all the time. And he’s just getting started,” I told her, nodding to the door. “Who knows what he’ll do next.”

Her eyes widened at that thought, and the look of fear returned. She was silent for a few seconds, but I saw when the light in her eyes changed, when she went from prey—to a would-be predator.

She reached out and snatched it from my hand. “Fine. But if this comes back on me—or if something really bad happens…”

“It won’t,” I promised. “He won’t even remember where he got the drink.”

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