Page 8 of Twisted Obsession

I don’t have a ticket to the game, and I don’t plan on buying one. There’s a bar along the main drag in front of the arena, and I take a seat on an open barstool to wait it out.

And lucky me, it’s on multiple televisions around the room. It’s filled with fans of both teams, all intensely watching the skaters onscreen. I order a wine—I seem to like some, but I’m trying to narrow that down, too—and set my phone in front of me.

Third period. From my experience at the game the other night, there are only three periods. The Titans are up by two, and there’s five minutes left on the clock.

I don’t know anything else, but I watch like I care. Really, I just scan the players trying to find Jacob Rhodes. He can usually be found near the goalie. He’s number fifteen. There are a few people wearing his number in here, his name written across their backs.

“Need anything else?” the bartender asks.

I snap my focus to her. “Do you know where the Titans hang out after games?”

She gives me a weird look. “Here sometimes. Depends on the night, but we usually get at least a few players in.”

I nod to myself and take a sip of the wine. It’s a room temperature red and seems to sink claws into my tongue. I can’t say I like it, and first impressions seem important. But, as with everything, I try it again.

By the time the game has ended, with the Titans pulling ahead in this series 2-1, I’ve managed half the glass. Another quarter is gone when some players arrive.

I spin on my stool, eyeing them. They’re in street clothes, but it seems like everyone knows who they are anyway. A cheer goes up around the room, and I join in on the clapping.

Jacob comes in next, and his energy is palpable from here.

Not particularly happy, but… intense. He always seems intense. On the ice, glaring down at me… I swallow and fidget at that particular memory.

He glances around the room, and it seems like it only takes him a handful of seconds to spot me. My breath catches, but I square my shoulders instead of shrinking away. I came here foranswers, damn it. I’m a grown-ass woman intimidated by a twenty-something-year-old.

Unacceptable.

Not for the first time, I wonder what sort of person I was before. Was shrinking something I did regularly? Is it genetics?

Never mind the nature versus nurture debate rolling through my head when I’m trying to sleep at night. If nurture plays such a vital role, we may as well acknowledge that I’m running on half a tank of gas. That is: all nature, no nurture.

Jacob Rhodes makes his way through the bar, stopping to chat with various people who catch his arm—but never his complete attention. All that intensity is burning through me, and it scares me. From this distance.

I’ve drained my wine by the time he steps up to the bar, taking the empty seat at my side. It wasn’t empty a moment ago, but whoever sat there evacuated it. Probably for him, because of who he is.

The bartender is back over in a heartbeat.

“A margarita for my friend, no salt, and a beer for me.”

His deep voice does something strange to me.

I frown at the wine I drank, but it’s whisked away and replaced with a margarita in no time at all. I haven’t made it to mixed drinks yet. They kind of scared me with how many options I have. Vodka, tequila, gin—and those are just the light-colored liquors. What if I was a dark-liquor person? If I enjoyed a spiced rum or whiskey, or if my tastes ran into the more expensive scotches? What if I only liked my whiskey on ice and ruled it out because I ordered wrong? Or if the bartender made it poorly?

“Tequila, triple sec, and lime.” His gaze is on the side of my face. “They make good ones here. Not so much at the place across the street, so you picked a decent bar.”

That answers one of my worries.

I take a sip. The flavor bursts across my tongue, and I almost groan. It’s so much freaking better than any of the wines I’ve tried.

“It’s delicious,” I murmur, setting it down and pushing it away. “Thank you.”

He lifts his beer bottle to his mouth. “But you don’t want it?”

“I was drinking wine.”

“You don’t like red.”

I sit up straighter. “Oh?”

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