I’m bored. When can we leave?
They don’t serve wine here. How lame is that?
The women here are all trashy. Have you seen what that bartender is wearing?
And the most recent, the one that causes me to lose my shit: “I don’t like the way the women put their arms around you when taking pictures.” Tracy pouts with her own arms crossed over her chest. “You need to tell them to stop, and you shouldn’t touch them. Hold your hands out the way Keanu Reeves does when he takes photos with fans.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” I snarl, and I don’t lower my voice the way I often do when I’m arguing with Tracy. “You have done nothing but complain since we got here. Hell, you do nothing but complain whenever I’m with you. I’m fucking sick of it.”
I’m well aware that my buddies have gone still and are shamelessly listening. None of my teammates likes Tracy, not a single damn one of them, and that says something. They’re also vocal in their feelings that I should part ways with her, but I make my own decisions.
Their willingness to tell me how they see it only goes to show how close we are. I appreciate that they feel comfortable telling me their exact feelings because I know it’s coming from a place of care.
And I have listened to them.
Hell… I’ve agreed with most of what they’ve said. But I’m working at this relationship because I’ve always been taught it takes hard work. It’s what my parents have told me when imparting wisdom. It’s what my Aunt Rory has said as well.
I’m an athlete, which makes me a competitor and that means winning is my favorite thing. However, I also know that sometimes you can try your best and still not succeed. I’m reaching the realization that no amount of effort will fix what’s broken here.
I’m particularly perturbed that she’s ruining what is an important team event this evening. We’re at Jerry’s Lounge, collecting toys for needy children and raising money for homeless shelters. How in the world Tracy could be upset about me putting my attention to such a worthy cause is beyond me. Maybe I need to focus on that flaw.
It’s not specifically about her being bored, or that this bar doesn’t serve wine, or even that she’s upset when I take pictures with female fans. It’s that she refuses to understand that I’m doing something good tonight with my team, that it’s part of my job. Sure, I’m having fun—although not with her—but it’s still a team event and she can’t expect me to cater to her at those times. We’ve had dozens of conversations about this but she either doesn’t get it or she doesn’t want to.
I glance over to my left and find both Kace and Coen watching me. I don’t want to embarrass Tracy in front of them, so I take her by the arm and lead her over to a small, private corner.
“What are you doing?” she demands, pulling her arm free. “How dare you manhandle me like I’m some piece of property for you to push around?”
I suck in a deep breath, biting my tongue to keep from spilling what I’d really like to say. My voice is low and calm. “I’m merely bringing you to a private place so that we can discuss this.”
“Discuss what? You’re acting like a fool.”
I take another deep breath, closing my eyes, and I let it out on a measured count of four. When I open my eyes again, Tracy is glaring at me.
Trying to find something redeemable at this moment, I don’t reply right away. I search for anything about her that might remind me what I was attracted to in the first place.
When we first met, she was not like this. Granted, there wasn’t a lot of substance between us. Tracy was a hot hookup and I kept going back for more. But we were having fun and I thought I might be at the stage where I could settle down with the right person.
It seemed the minute I committed to her she became possessive, needy, and difficult to please.
As I study her, I can’t latch on to a single thing to give me the will to try anymore. There’s nothing there.
“This isn’t going to work,” I say with a heavy sigh.
Tracy’s eyes narrow, and her hands go to her hips. “What’s not going to work?”
I motion between the two of us. “This relationship. It’s not working.”
She waves a hand in exasperation. “Of course it’s not. Because you drag me to dive bars, let women fall all over you, and you would prefer to talk to your buddies rather than me.”
Because you’re a raging bitch, my inner voice says, but I don’t let it out. My mother taught me better.
I decide to take the high road and shoulder complete blame. “I’m not good enough for you, Tracy. You deserve far better than what I’m able to give.”
Her eyes narrow until they’re tiny slits and I can see she’s trying to reason out whether I’m being serious. I wait with hope that she comes to the same conclusion so we can make this a nice parting.
Unfortunately, she backpedals. “I’m sorry,” she says, stepping into me. She wraps her arms around my waist and presses in close. Tracy bats her eyelashes as she tips her head back to look at me. “I’m tired and testy, and I shouldn’t take it out on you.”
Goddamn it. If she would’ve stayed in bitch mode, it would’ve made the breakup much easier.
I fortify myself with one more deep breath and then spell it out as clear as can be. “I want to break up, Tracy.” I gently unwrap her arms from my waist and create space between us. “I don’t believe that you and I have enough in common for the long haul. All we do is fight. You don’t seem happy and I can tell you I’m not happy.”
“You asshole!” she shrieks, and I wince. “How dare you just use me and toss me to the curb?”
So many things I could say to that, but I’m trying to keep my bearings because of the emotional whiplash she’s doling out.
I take her elbow again and start walking her toward the door. “Call an Uber to take you home. I’ll wait outside with you until it arrives.”
Tracy jerks her arm away and hisses, “I’m not going anywhere. And you will take me home since you brought me here.”
I shake my head. “You’re more than welcome to stay. It’s a free country. But I’m not taking you home. We’re done.”
The one thing I’m grateful for is that Tracy has never used tears to manipulate me, although she has tried to manipulate me plenty through anger.
She stares at me icily. “You can go to hell, Hendrix. I’m out of here and don’t you dare follow me. I don’t need your pity.”
Oh, thank God.
Spinning on her foot, she melts into the crowd. I stare in the direction she went, considering if I should follow to make sure she’s safe, but that would only send mixed signals.
A hand claps down on my shoulder, and a shot glass filled with amber liquid is thrust into my grip. I twist to see Coen grinning at me. “Congrats, man. You are free and single again.”
I toss the liquor back and it tastes like pure celebration. I feel like a thousand pounds of weight has evaporated from my body.
Coen loops his arm over my shoulder and grins wickedly. “I guarantee you everyone in our group tonight will be fighting to buy you the next one. Prepare to get drunk.”
Laughing, I follow Coen through the crowd to where the rest of my peeps are congregated.
♦
There are six Titans players here tonight.
Stone, Coen, Foster, Kirill, Kace, and me, which means a total of five shots to celebrate my breakup with Tracy. We’re all enjoying this little bar Harlow set up for our charity drive and given that we only have a light skate tomorrow, I know I’ll have zero regrets over the hangover I’ll surely be suffering. There may have been a moment between the second and third shots where I considered if this was a wise course of action, but I realized I wouldn’t be alone in my suffering because for every shot I drink, my mates toss their own back in brotherly solidarity.
The fifth, and I say final, shot of the evening (because I don’t want to feel like absolute shit tomorrow) arrives via the same bartender Tracy was trashing a few hours ago when we arrived.
I noticed her when we walked in, running back and forth behind a busy bar. Harlow seems to know her as I’ve seen them talking here and there when the woman had a few seconds to spare, but she’s been so busy with the masses we drew in tonight, I’m surprised to see her headed this way.
She’s totally hot and not trashy the way Tracy said. While Tracy is all sunny California looks—golden hair, tanned skin, and a lush figure—the bartender is quite the opposite, and I’m guessing that’s why Tracy hated her on sight.
She’s utterly unique with almost raven-black hair cut in shaggy layers around her face and coming down no longer than her shoulders. Her eyes are an unusual mixture of blue and gray, like forming storm clouds. They’re fringed with dark lashes, and she has a nose piercing in addition to several in both ears. I’m guessing Tracy thought she was trashy because she’s wearing a tight Harley Davidson tank top cut low, but not so low you can see much cleavage, along with faded jeans and biker boots. Her arms are a collage of tattoos, her eye makeup is dramatic and smoky, and her nails are painted black. Totally beautiful in a rocker-chick way, and sexy as fuck with that confident strut.
The tray hoisted on her palm above her shoulder sports six shots of bourbon and a bottle of water. She winks at Harlow who’s balancing on Stone’s knee as he sits at the table we’ve commandeered at the back of the building.
She goes to Harlow first, who takes the bottle of water since she doesn’t drink. “Thanks, Stevie.”
Stevie. I love it. That name totally fits.
“Bottom’s up,” she says as she twirls the tray and lowers it before us men without spilling a drop. Her voice is husky, like she’s been singing at a concert all night.
The guys reach in for their drinks until only mine is left. Stevie tips her head and nods down at it. “I heard these shots are in celebration of you cutting toxicity from your life. Congrats.”
Kirill snorts and since he’s the closest to me, I steal his glass right from his hand and offer it to Stevie. “You should celebrate with me.”
Those tempestuous eyes drop to the liquor and then back up to me. Her lips—full, soft looking, and without a trace of lipstick—curve upward. “Not interested.”
She puts the tray under her arm and starts to turn away. I slide quickly to get in front of her, bringing her up short. “I’m Hendrix, by the way.”
I hold out my hand, and I’m surprised she takes it. “Stevie.”
She tries to pull free, but I hold tight. “That’s an interesting name.”
“My dad’s an interesting guy,” she says, our hands still connected. “He named me.”
“Oh, yeah?”
She nods, then turns toward the bar. “See that big dude sitting at the end?”
“The one glaring at us?” He’s massive, and his eyes are narrowed on me.
“He’s glaring at you, not us.”
Hmm… I could probably take him, but I’m far too chill to throw fists in a bar. Also, that’s her dad, and if I want to impress her, I can’t be knocking the guy out.
So I drop her hand. “I’m assuming he’s a Stevie Nicks fan.”
“I’m impressed you even know who that is.” She tucks a hand in the back pocket of her jeans and appraises me. “You look like Justin Timberlake’s more your speed.”
My hand covers my heart and I wince. “That hurts. My Aunt Rory is a huge Stevie Nicks fan, so I can assure you I know all about her music.”
She cocks an already perfectly arched eyebrow. “You’re not just saying that, are you?”
I take my forefinger and draw a diagonal line over my heart and then cross it in the opposite direction. “Like, a serious fan. She always points to Stevie Nicks’s decision not to have kids and just be a crazy aunt who spoils her own niece as validation of her same life choice.”
“That sounds plausible,” Stevie admits, although her expression seems dubious.
“Sure you won’t have a drink with me and talk about it more?” I press.
Her eyes lift up to the ceiling as if she’s considering it, but then slam back into mine with a coldness that dashes all hopes. “Still not interested.”
When she starts to turn away, I scramble. “Just ten minutes of your time. That’s all I want.”
“What could you possibly need ten minutes of my time for?”
“To convince you to go on a date with me.” I offer a very charming smile, but it doesn’t soften the set to her jaw.
“You’d need far more than ten minutes and probably a gallon of booze to convince me.”
“Just ten minutes,” I assure her. “Alone.”
Something sparkles in her eyes and if I had to take a guess, it’s interest. But she shuts me down again. “Sorry. My time’s too valuable.”
“Then let’s wager something for those ten minutes.”
“Like what?”
“How about a game of pool or darts? I’ll let you choose. If I win, I get quality alone time with you to plead my case.”
“And if I win?” she asks, taking a step toward me.
“What do you want?”
She glances around the bar, which is starting to clear out a bit. We’ve done all the pictures and meet and greets with fans. “You have to do the cleanup at the end of my shift.”
“Deal,” I say without hesitation. I’m not afraid of cleaning and if I lose, that still gives me time around her to try to win her over.
“Be right back,” she says.
I turn to my friends, hand Kirill back his shot, and hoist my glass. “Cheers.”
They follow suit, knocking back the whiskey like champs.
I step over to where Stone and Harlow sit, throwing my thumb over my shoulder. “What’s the deal with that waitress, Stevie?”
Harlow laughs. “She owns the bar. We went to high school together.”
Well, that makes her even more interesting. “Put in a good word for me, okay?”
“A good word for what?” Harlow asks.
“I’m trying to score a date with her.”
“Dude,” Stone drawls with an amused shake of his head. “You just broke up with someone.”
“Your point?” I ask, reaching for my draft beer on the table. “Every one of you has been bitching at me for weeks to dump Tracy.”
“Rebound much?” Stone teases.
“It’s not a rebound. To rebound, you have to have a broken heart and I don’t have that.”
“He’s got a point,” Harlow says, wrapping an arm around Stone’s shoulder, but then her green eyes come to mine. “But Stevie is most definitely not your type, so you’re wasting time.”
“How do you know she’s not my type?” The minute the question is out of my mouth, I answer it myself. “Okay, granted… you’re personal friends with her, so you might know something, but I think I’ll make that final determination myself.”
“Hey,” Harlow says, hands out in surrender. “Knock yourself out, buddy.”
“I bet her a game of pool and if I win, she has to give me ten minutes of her time which I will magically use to get her to agree to a date.”
Harlow bends over laughing, and Stone chuckles.
“What?” I demand.
Laughing too hard to answer, Stone says, “Dude… she owns a bar. Not only that, she inherited it from her grandfather. She was raised in this place. There’s no way you’re going to beat her at pool.”
Hmm… that could be problematic, but I’ve been playing pool since I was a kid too. Thanks to Aunt Rory, lover of all things Stevie Nicks, I also hung out in some bars along the way.
