Page 1 of Worth the Risk

1

HUDSON

The glass of whiskey, neat, slides my way against the bar, and I’m quick to accept the amber-colored liquid. I examine the contents for a second or two, but I don’t need to debate it long. I know anything I drink here in this chic, industrial-styled restaurant and bar will be good, and I’ve had a long day.

After hours of meetings with team management, my brain feels like it may be fried.

“Anything else, Hudson? I’m going to close up early.” Wes is the owner of Jupiter, the bar I frequent because the hospitality is excellent, the food is star-worthy, and this place is crawling with Chicago’s sports elite even on a slow day—well, except tonight. Right now, it’s just me.

I shake my head. “It’s all good. I’ll drink up then head out.”

“No rush. I need to do some paperwork upstairs anyway, plus the weather is that horrible cold rain, so I’m trying to avoid it.” Wes is in his early thirties and has a personality that welcomes conversation.

“Why are you even behind the bar?” I wonder aloud, as he is normally up in his office and only circles the restaurant a few times when high-profile guests are here.

He grins. “Because I’m a good boss and sent my staff home early since it wasn’t busy. Plus, when I saw you come in, then I figured I might try to get some intel for a few football bets that I have going on with friends.”

His humor causes me to tip my head up, with a smirk forming. “I won’t be divulging any secrets, but The Winds will have a good year.”

Our draft was just announced, and it’s May, which means we still have training season ahead before deciding our final roster, and I’m prepared to work those boys into the ground, as I have a record to uphold.

“You are the team’s coach, so you may be biased,” he counters.

I sigh at the reminder. I love my job, but damn, the pressure some days is a lot. Being a star quarterback back in my heyday was tough, but being a coach in a city driven by sports? Fucking insanity. I question my decision to take this job daily, especially if we lose a game and half the city is cursing my name, but then I get to the field or watch a player excel and I’m hooked all over again.

The sound of the revolving door swooshing open catches our attention. The umbrella, with a pattern that looks like dancing lobsters on it, is obstructing our view of the person beneath, but the sound of heels pattering is enough to tell me that it’s a woman.

“Sorry, we’re closed,” Wes calls out just as the umbrella collapses.

Now I have a full view, and I’m not sure where to start.

The woman has deep-pink heels, and her skirt falls just below her knee, but damn, it is tight. Working my way up her body, I intend to give her the full once-over. Her black jacket is open, and I get a glimpse of a blouse that matches her shoes. Then her lips have a similar color, and they part open, and I just want to do a double take because she is easy on the eyes.

“Oh.” She nearly frowns. “That’s a shame. I was hoping for an escape from this weather. It’s been quite a day.”

Wes seems to study her for a second, possibly because my eyes haven’t drifted off her for more than a millisecond.

“You know what… one drink,” he offers.

A smile stretches on her lips, and she walks in our direction with a sway that seems to be restricted, probably by the fact that her skirt is the type of fabric that must rip easily, and no, I’m not proud that my brain made that connection. She slides her jacket off and places it on the back of the stool, then sits next to me as she swipes a strand of her long, light brown hair behind her ear.

“Let me guess, gin and tonic?” I ask her to make conversation.

She shyly smiles at me. “No. I’m a martini, classic, with three olives kind of gal.”

“Coming right up.” Wes begins to gather the ingredients.

She holds her hand up to stop. “Wait, can I just have a Shirley Temple?” She nearly groans as she says it.

I scoff a sound. “I wouldn’t have expected that choice.” I set my glass to the side and then angle my stool in her direction.

“Believe me, I wish it was the martini, but I just remembered that I promised a friend to join her on the no-alcohol-for-a-week train. She wants her mind clear for when her boyfriend proposes, because she feels like it’s going to happen any day now,” she explains.

“Wow, friendship. But you look like you could use the martini,” I highlight the obvious.

Her head lolls to the side ever so slightly. “True.” She taps her fingers on the counter. “Ugh, I guess my day trumps maybe-proposals. Martini, please.” Wes nods then gets busy with making her drink. Her eyes brighten, and God, I love the curve of her cheeks. “Martinis are my grandmother’s favorite. Every day at three after her soaps, for as long as I can remember, it’s been her routine. It’s traditional, I like that.”

“You don’t seem like a traditional girl.”

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