Page 79 of One Night Only
I’m pulled from my thoughts by a knock on the door.
I startle, turning to the door of our hotel room. But then I realize the knock came from the door to the bathroom.
“Robbie?” I stand, holding the now sticky towel over my junk.
The door cracks open enough for me to see Robbie’s eyes.
“You fucking done or what?” Robbie mutters.
“Oh, yeah,” I say. “Sorry, man.”
He looks down at me, brow quirking when he sees the towel covering my dick.
“I need another shower.”
He steps out of the way of the door, hands held up with a scoff. “I don’t know why you think I need to know that.”
I roll my eyes, stepping around him and into the bathroom, closing the door behind me. And as I rest back against the door with a resigned sigh, I can’t help but wonder if I’m on the verge of losing the woman I’m falling head over heels in love with before we even get a chance.
CHAPTER 31
DALLAS
This has officially been our worst away series so far this season. Three back-to-back games. Three straight losses. Three steps closer to fucking up our dreams of making the playoffs.
On Tuesday, we played Miami and lost 3-1. Last night, we played Tennessee and lost 4-3. And tonight, we lost against North Carolina 2-0, and they had two of their better players off due to injuries.
The last thing we should be doing right now is sitting in a bar in downtown Charlotte, drinking away our sorrows. And yet here we are, hiding out in a booth tucked away in the back, sinking beers like Coach isn’t going to kick our asses the second we get back to New York tomorrow.
Robbie, being the only sober one among us, tries to be the voice of reason. “We didn’t play terribly. At the end of the day, the other teams played better. You win some; you lose some.”
Happy spears him with acan-you-notlook.
“Profound, man. You should start your own motivational t-shirt line…” Logan mutters, rolling his eyes as he takes a sip of his beer.
Robbie shrugs his shoulders, clearly at a loss.
I tug on the brim of my Stetson, shielding my face as I look down, drawing rings of condensation on the table with my beer bottle. This is the worst feeling. Like a heaviness that won’t subside. Like there’s something sitting on my chest and I can’t quite catch a breath. I take a sip of my beer, but it does little to help. And I’m not an idiot. I know this isn’t only about the game we just played or the two games before it. If I’m being honest, I’ve been feeling this way ever since I got off the phone with Emily on Monday night.
I still can’t believe how that FaceTime went from teaching her how to make herself squirt and coming harder than I’ve ever come before, to then Emily telling me she’s going to Andy’s house for dinner, with Jenn’s fucking brother. For some sort of romantic double fucking date. What the fuck? I’ve tried not thinking about it, because every time I do, like right now, it makes me so angry. I want to punch my fist through a wall. I feel like I wasn’t fully able to get my head in the game because it’s been hanging over me all week. It’s not Emily’s fault. This is all Andy. I’m so fucking pissed at him right now.
“Robbie’s right,” I mutter, tipping my hat back and looking at the guys around the table. “We just need to put this series behind us and focus on the next few games leading up to the holiday break. If we can win those, losing these points shouldn’t hurt us too much.” I shrug a shoulder, finishing the rest of my beer in one go.
“Last drinks?” I ask the guys as I go to move out of the booth.
Logan sighs, nodding once.
Happy tips back the rest of his beer and nods.
I slide out of the booth and snake my way through the crowd, sidling up to the bar. The bartender points at me, indicating that he’s got me up next, and I relax back a little, using the moment to look out over the busy venue.
It’s a typical southern joint. Framed sports memorabilia hung up on the walls. A collection of mounted stag heads above the bar. Multiple TVs set up and playing all differentsports. A jukebox in the front playing Morgan Wallen. My kind of place.
“Same again, pal?”
I turn back to see the bartender right there, and I nod, watching as he goes about pouring the beers.
“Well, well, well,” a deep voice laced with disdain booms from over my shoulder. “If it isn’t the NHL’ssexiestgoalie.”
