One More Shot (Hometown Players #1) (15 page)

I
can’t find the guys. They were here a minute ago, but then I went to take a leak and now they’re not by the pool tables where I left them. I do one lap around the overcrowded bar, but I’m too drunk to continue the search. Not fall-down drunk, but unfocused, lazy drunk. I order a shot of tequila and a beer from a waitress and find an empty table by the bathroom. Eventually one of the guys is going to take a piss.

I’d been in a shit-tastic mood since I hurt my hand. The team’s general manager had a lengthy, angry discussion with me about the incident. He was furious, obviously. If it had gotten out that I was brawling with a reporter, it would have been a press nightmare, not just for me, but for the entire team and even the league.

He also said it’s not a bad thing I was injured because he would have had me benched anyway. He wanted to know what it was about. I wouldn’t give him details other than to say Chance and I had known each other a long time and this was an ongoing issue. It was explained to me, in no uncertain terms, it was not an issue I was to bring to work ever again.

It was stupid and I deserved the scorn. I’d just…snapped. There was no excuse and no way to rationalize it. I was probably as angry with myself as Jessie was with me. I always wanted Chance to know what had happened between me and Jessie. I needed him to know he hadn’t hurt her as badly as he thought he had; that he hadn’t mattered as much as he thought he had. I also needed him to know that
I
mattered to her more than he thought I did. It was infantile and driven completely by my ridiculous ego, and I knew this. I wish I hadn’t done it. I’d been trying to tell Jessie all of this, but she refused to answer the phone. And the one day I went by her work was her and Tori’s day off. When I’d subtly asked the receptionist where she lived, she got suspicious and looked at me like I was a stalker or a serial killer so I’d backed off and gone back home to sulk.

I went to the arena every day to do cardio and skate in an attempt to stay conditioned. When this hand healed, I didn’t want any reason not to get back on the ice immediately. I was on my best behavior. I barely spoke to anyone, and when I did it was only about hockey. Coach seemed relieved. Still pissed, but relieved.

On my off time I was going out way too much. I’d go out with any teammate who had the urge. This week alone I’d been out four nights. I hated sitting at home. When I was home alone, all I could think about was Jessie.

The annoying part was when I was out in public, no matter where I went or how many women were flirting shamelessly with me, all I could think about was Jessie. And then I would go home and jerk off—my thoughts on Jessie in her yoga pants. Or how it had felt to be inside her the one and only time I’d ever been inside her. I felt like a giant loser.

The game the Winterhawks had played tonight hadn’t been an easy win, but I’d managed to convince Alex and Dix to come out despite the fact they had practice tomorrow and then had to get on a plane for the next away game. As I sit here now, by myself, I wonder briefly if they all went home. And as I sip my scotch, I think maybe I should just leave. Every time a pretty woman walks by, it reminds me how much prettier Jessie is. I should just go home, jerk off and feel pathetic again.

Then suddenly, before I can register what’s happening, I hear my name being called and there’s a big-breasted, tall blonde towering over my table.

“Hey, Tori!” I say, slightly glad it’s someone I know, but only slightly because, as usual, this girl has a dirty look on her face as she stares at me. “How are you?”

“Better now that you’re not my patient,” she snaps.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Maybe it’s the booze or just the way my life has been going lately, but suddenly I’ve got no patience and no subtlety when it comes to this woman. “You’ve been cold and rude since I met you, and I have no idea why.”

She stops and stares at me incredulously, blinking her big blue eyes. The waitress comes over and places my shot and beer on the table between us. She winks and says, “On the house, superstar.”

I give her a grateful smile—the innocent kind that makes them think this has never happened to me before. The fact is, there’s at least one waitress or bartender in every bar in every town with an NHL team who comps a drink or two as a way of flirting. She’s beaming as she wanders away.

“Whatever I did to offend you, I’m sorry,” I tell her because she’s friends with Jessie. She could be an ally, and right now I need all the allies I can find. I slide the shot glass toward her. “Let’s drink to a truce.”

She steps closer, her eyes go to the shot glass, and a bitter smile flickers over her features briefly as she picks it up and stares at the clear liquid inside. Then she leans across the table. “The first time we met I wasn’t rude or cold to you.”

I frown as my mind goes back to the meeting in her office. I’m about to shake my head to argue when she continues. “The first time I met you, I was downright giddy because I thought you were the hottest thing I’d ever seen and the most talented player in the NHL. And you were so charming. You liked my dress and the fact that I knew the difference between a slap shot and a wrist shot. You bought me one of these…actually you bought me two. And a couple margaritas. I was nice to you. I was a total fucking sweetheart all night long.”

Is she crazy? Is Jessie’s coworker an escaped mental patient? What the hell is she talking about? I stare at her—really stare at her—my brain pulling out any fuzzy, confused memory in every corner of my mind. Did I meet her before? I can’t for the life of me remember.

“You made it clear it was a one-night stand and I was fine with that. I really was.” She looks at me sincerely. “I thought one night with you would be a fantasy come true. I’ve had one-night stands before. They’re just good clean fun. But I haven’t had so many that I don’t remember.”

Oh fuck. A fuzzy memory surfaces from the recesses of my mind. Tori in a Capitol Hill martini bar with slightly shorter hair and a tight red dress. Then I remember Tori out of the dress.

I open my mouth but she lifts her free hand and holds her palm out in front of my face, commanding me to shut up. “No, seriously. I was fine with the one-night stand. I was even looking forward to joking about it with you when I found out we’d be working together. It was only when you looked at me blankly and I had to introduce myself that I regretted it.”

And just when I think this night can’t get any worse, my eyes catch a glimmer of auburn hair and there is Jessie watching us from a few feet away. Then she’s standing beside us. Her hair is loose and wavy around her face and shoulders. She’s wearing makeup—not a lot, but enough to make her eyes greener and her skin glow, and her perfect fucking lips are glossy and wet-looking. She’s wearing a slinky black tank top and I can see the outline of her black bra through it. Her low, painted-on jeans and high-heeled black leather boots give her a few extra inches in height—plus, they tilt her ass just so, making it look even more amazing and perky.

“What’s going on?” she asks Tori, not me.

“Nothing much,” Tori says quickly, and nods her head toward me. “Just finally explaining to our ex-patient here why I hate his guts.”

“Tori, I don’t know what to say,” I croak out lamely.

“I do!” She raises the shot glass in a toast. “Here’s to being such a manwhore you don’t even remember the women you slept with!”

She downs the shot, slams the glass on the table and storms away. I close my eyes, run a hand over my face and let out a long, humiliated breath. When I open my eyes again, Jessie is still standing there.

She says nothing. She just stares at me. I stare at her. I can tell she’s furious and I can also tell she’s had a lot to drink. “Jessie, please say something.”

“I was just at the bar. I met a great guy. Alex. He’s hot and bought me a drink.”

“Alex?” I repeat, the nervous ball in my stomach turning to dread.

“Yeah.” She smiles but it’s mirthless. “You know him. French guy. Your hot teammate. I think I need to be with Alex.”

She turns on her heel and storms back through the crowd. My blood starts whirling through my body, too fast, too hot. Jessie disappears around a pillar, out of sight. I turn and begin to push my way through the crowd toward Jessie and the dirtiest, horniest teammate I know.

I
find Alexandre standing playing pool with his buddy, Dix. I walk right up behind him and slip an arm around his waist. He doesn’t even look shocked. He just grins a mischievous grin that I am one hundred percent sure has charmed the pants off a few hundred women.

“I thought we’d scared you off,” he says in a husky voice.

“I don’t scare easily,” I tell him, and bat my eyelashes. “And besides, I owe you a drink.”

I turn and order a beer and another martini from the waitress, then turn back to Alex. This time he slips his arm around my waist. With a little tug he pulls me flush against him. Clearly, he thinks he’s got the green light from me. This is fine, even though it makes me feel kind of sick.

“Are you trying to get me drunk?” he whispers against my ear.

“Something tells me I don’t need to,” I purr. Alex laughs and I feel his lips brush my earlobe.

This is doing anything but turning me on. It feels completely horrible and wrong. But then I see Jordan storming toward us. His blue eyes fill with fire when he sees us together, and that’s all that matters. Alex leaves my side, walking around the pool table to survey his next shot.

Jordan walks right up to me, standing so close I can feel the heat of his skin through his thin cotton shirt. He dips his head and whispers, “Jessie…we need to talk.”

“I’m not here to talk to you,” I snap, and walk away, over to Alex. My phone buzzes and I pull it out of my purse. It’s a text message from Tori saying she’s sorry but she had to get out of there. I send her a quick one back telling her it’s okay, we’ll talk tomorrow…Even though the thought of her with Jordan makes me feel sick to my stomach, I don’t blame her for this. She didn’t even know me when she was with Jordan. She did nothing wrong.

The waitress comes back with the drinks, and as I go to pay her, Alex pushes my hand away and tells her to add them to his tab. I smile and lean over, kissing his cheek. It’s light but lingering. I want to make sure Jordan sees it.

“
Merci
,” I tell him, using one of the only French words I know.

“
Mon plaisir
, Jessie,” he replies in French, and I have to admit it’s sexy as hell. I’d swoon a little if the red-hot rage running through my system wasn’t so all-encompassing. Alex reaches out and brushes my hair from my face.

Jordan is watching us intently. He runs his braced hand through his hair, sending it off in too many different directions, and gives me a pleading look, like he wants me to go over there, but I ignore him. I focus on Alex, putting my hands on his broad shoulders. God, I have to admit I love hockey players’ bodies. So strong and so tight.

“I need to get out of here,” I say to him quietly. “Do you want to come with me?”

Alex nods.

Jordan’s eyes fall on me. They’re full of something I haven’t seen from him in a long, long time—pain.

“Don’t,” he mouths to me with a slow shake of his head.

I turn toward Alex, who has just finished signing a bill for the waitress. He grins at me and it’s no longer mischievous. It’s feral. Expectant. Horny.

“Let’s go,
ma belle
.” Alex pulls me close to him.

We turn to go and as we weave our way through the crowd, his hand on my lower back slides to my ass. I’m sure he’s a nice guy, and I know I’ve given him every reason to think I’m just some puck bunny who wants a ride on his hockey stick. He’s just trying to give me what he thinks I want. And of course it’s what
he
wants. He’s young, rich, single and horny. He has every right to want meaningless sex.

Of course I have no intention of having meaningless sex with him. I just want him to leave the bar with me so Jordan thinks I’m doing that. I know he’ll eventually find out nothing happened. I can tell Alex is the type of guy who will bitch in the locker room about the tease who wasted his time, but tonight Jordan will have to go home and picture me riding his teammate all night long.

I want that pain for him more than I want anything else in the world right now. Mostly because
I
have already lived through that pain repeatedly—and now I’ll be living through it again every time I look at my coworker.

“One second,” he whispers, and leaves me standing by the restroom as he goes into the men’s room.

As I wait for Alex, I turn and see Jordan shoving his way through the crowded club, heading toward the door. He doesn’t see me. He probably thinks I’m already in a cab with Alex. Good. I should just stand here and let him go home and hope that he’s gutted. This is exactly what I want. But for some stupid reason, I find myself following after him.

I
look around the parking lot frantically but don’t see Alex or Jessie anywhere. They’re gone. Knowing Alex, he already has his tongue in her mouth and his hands on her tits and…

“Fuck!” I yell, tearing my hands through my stupid hair. I feel a wave of sadness wash over me. It’s overwhelming, and it’s followed by an insurmountable anger. My eyes get moist and my face gets hot. I can’t get the images of him touching her out of my head.

“How’s it feel?”

I’m so lost in these sick visions that I don’t recognize the voice. I spin around, and there she is. By herself. Standing behind me rigid with anger. The hard glint in her mossy green eyes falters for just a second when she takes in what must be a devastated look on my face.

“How does it feel?” she repeats, the hard edge coming back as swiftly as it left.

“You didn’t do it.” I can finally pull air into my lungs. I hadn’t even realized I wasn’t breathing.

“Not yet” is her short response.

“Please don’t,” I say gruffly, and shake my head.

“Why?” she asks, tilting her head so her auburn hair falls over her shoulder. “Because you don’t want to think about me screwing your buddy?”

I swallow. “No. I don’t.”

“It sucks. I know,” she replies with a bitter smile. “To know when you’re home alone he’s going to be touching me and tasting me. And you’re going to be able to imagine exactly what that feels like for him. What I’ll say. What I’ll do. What noises I’ll make. “

“Stop it,” I demand.

“Don’t worry, Jordan,” she quietly assures me. “If I do this, it’ll be a one-time thing. You won’t have to lie in bed at night wondering who I’m fucking a week from now or a year from now. Wondering if I’m telling some stranger I love him the way I told you. I went through that. So let’s even the score. If I go home with Alex, you won’t be able to avoid that pain either.”

Her words cut through me. They hurt but they don’t gut me because I’m clinging to four simple words she said:
If I do this.

And one other thing…

“You never said you loved me,” I tell her flatly.

“What?” she barks, annoyed.

“That night we were together. Or any other night for that matter…you never said you loved me.” This is the truth, and it’s always been clear in my mind. “I told
you
. You’ve never said it back.”

The hard glare in her eye dies and she shifts on her heels uncomfortably.

“Did you love me?” I ask, but she doesn’t answer. She just stares at the cold concrete beneath her feet. I take a step toward her. “Because, if you loved me—if you ever did, even just a little bit—please don’t do this now.”

“I don’t owe you anything, Jordan,” she replies defiantly, raising her face to mine. “Why should I do you any favors?”

“Because it would kill me,” I confess to her in a choked, thick voice.

“You killed me,” she spits back, her voice equally clogged with emotion. Her pain feels like a knife in my gut.

Without a word she turns and charges back toward the club. I follow but the crowd swallows her up before I can reach her. Desperate for air, I head back outside. I stand on the sidewalk, motionless. My face flushes and my vision blurs.

I hear Dix call out to me. “Garrison! Your turn to get your butt kicked at pool! I need a new victim now that Alex took off with the hottie.”

I don’t answer and his footsteps get closer and closer until he comes around and stands in front of me.

“What the fuck?!” Dix gasps, shocked. “Jordan…what happened?”

I shove him and turn away. I lean on a parked car and try to will myself to stop fucking crying. What the fuck is wrong with me? I’m a fucking disaster.

“Dude…I…why? What can I do?” Dix is confused because it’s unfathomable that I would be a sobbing mess. He grabs my shoulder and turns me around. “Jordan! What the hell?”

I hear a guy on the crowded patio a few feet away say “Hey! Isn’t that
the
Jordan Garrison?”

“Yeah! And Dixon! Hey, guys!” Any second these fans will be walking over asking for photos and they’ll see me losing my shit and by tomorrow morning it’ll be all over the sports news.

“I gotta go,” I say, and clear my throat to take a deep breath. “I gotta go.”

“Dude!” Dix calls, but I just keep walking as fast as my legs will carry me.

“I’m fine! I gotta go.”

I get into a cab and the driver gives me a stunned stare. I sniff and say “allergies” and then give him my address.

Eight days later, I walk into the treatment room at the Winterhawks’ arena, trying to act laid back.

Charles, our team doctor, follows me to the back where there’s a free treatment table. Dix is sitting by a therapy table, his ankle in a bucket of ice and water. He tweaked it in the last game, so now he’s joined me—sitting in the bowels of the arena while our team plays on the ice just down the hall. It’s particularly frustrating when we score and the roars of the cheering crowd rumble down the concrete hallways.

Dix looks surprised to see me and I notice trepidation in his gaze. I haven’t seen him since my meltdown outside the bar. He texted me from their road trip a few times. I kept telling him nothing was wrong. I was fine. Don’t worry about it. I thought about texting Alex, but what the hell would I say? Did you bang the girl from the bar? The one I’ve been in love with since I was fourteen? They’d have me committed. So I didn’t do a fucking thing. I stayed home. I drank. I sulked. I stewed.

I sit down on the other side of the table from Dix. Charles takes my hand out of its brace and starts to manipulate the joints carefully.

I was supposed to be on the ice tonight, but my wrist is stiff and sore and it starts to swell any time I take a few shocks with a stick. Nobody wants to risk it. Nobody but me. Charles continues his poking and prodding for a few minutes longer, then tells me he’ll be right back and heads into his office.

Now, alone in the treatment room, Dix turns to me. “Dude, seriously,” he starts in a low voice. “What the hell happened to you that night?”

I smile awkwardly. “It was my time of the month.”

He laughs but shakes his head, not willing to let it go with a joke. “You freaking cried, Jordan.”

“I know. I was there.”

“I told Chooch about the night and he said it must have been over that girl Alex was trying to bag,” Dix goes on, making me cringe. “She was your girlfriend in high school?”

I shake my head. “She wasn’t. She should have been but she wasn’t, technically. It’s a long story.”

Pulling his foot out of the ice bucket and wiping it dry with a towel, Dix says, “She bailed on him, you know. He said she just jumped out of the cab at a red light few blocks from the club and took off. He was moaning and bitching about it the entire road trip. Until he laid some chick after the game in Vegas, that is.”

I feel like I’ve been wearing a lead suit and someone just took it off me. I take a deep, relaxed breath. Thank freaking God.

“Dude, I can’t imagine anything so complicated that I’d lose it like you did,” he remarks, but there’s no condemnation in his voice, just concern. “Scared the shit out of us.”

“I just need to get back on the ice,” I mutter.

“Tell me about it,” Dix agrees, and his round, normally jovial face turns sour. He hops off the table and I watch him leave.

Alone, I lie back and close my eyes as I wait for Charles to return with the X-ray results.

Jessie is the only woman I have ever cried over. And the humiliating part is these waterworks weren’t the first Jessie had caused. I’d shed tears over her when she left me at eighteen too. That’s what had set me off—the powerlessness and pain of losing her the first time is why I’d decided I would never let someone in like that again. I hated being so hurt then—feeling so out of control—and I hate it now. The only difference is now I know that blaming her and running from my feelings—even the painful ones—aren’t going to fix anything. I know that because that’s what I’ve done for the last six years.

I close my eyes and lean back on the medical table as my mind wanders back to a time I have tried adamantly to block out.