This has been one heck of a week. Between all the game day travel, and the series of PT workshops hosted by the community college that Poppy oh-so-generously volunteered me to help run, I am absolutely beat. The boys are too. Honestly, I’ve hardly seen them this week. It seems like the only time we’re all in the house on non-travel days are between the hours of 9:00pm and 6:00am. Poor Jake is usually so tired he just crashes out asleep.
Which is why I’m surprised they said they wanted to go out tonight. I got the text from Caleb while I was finishing up my last hour of the PT training course. We’re going to Riptide’s Bar & Grill. I’ve already heard from Poppy that she’s going too. And some of the other guys—Novy, Langley, Sully and his wife Shelby.
I finish up with Fiona, the program coordinator, and she helps me drag my equipment bags out to the parking lot. As we walk out the automatic doors, Caleb’s Jeep pulls up to the curb. Both guys are in the front seats, shades on, hats flipped backwards. Caleb’s surfboard is strapped to the top rails.
“We’re lookin’ for a hurricane,” he calls. “Either of you ladies seen one around?”
I snort, rolling my eyes at his cheesy line.
Fiona glances around, confused. “No, umm—I mean, it’s clear skies today. Rain this weekend though—”
“It’s okay, Fiona,” I say. “He’s just teasing you. He’s my ride.”
“Ohhh,” she says with a little laugh. “Are you both players then?”
“He is,” says Caleb, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder at Jake.
“Wow. You know, Doctor Price was such a great addition to our program.” she says. “You’re really lucky to have her.”
“Oh, we know,” Jake calls with a smile.
“We’re so grateful this could work out,” she adds, turning to me. “Maybe we could do it again next semester?”
“Sure,” I reply. It’s a cool program, offering college students hands-on experience they wouldn’t expect to see until residency.
While we say our goodbyes, Jake slips out of the Jeep and takes the bags, loading them into the back. Then he opens my car door, letting me slide in the back seat. As soon as Fiona is safely back inside, Caleb cranks the Jeep into gear and we’re off.
“So, party at Rip’s, huh?” I call over the roar of the wind and the radio.
“Yep!” Jake shouts. “It’s cheat day and I wanna eat my weight in sliders and fries!”
As we pull up to the big, sprawling beach bar, I sense a mood shift in Jake.
“Wait—what day is it today?” he says, his hand frozen on the strap of his seatbelt.
“Thursday,” I reply. We’ll be on the road again tomorrow for a game. “Why?”
“Oh…shit,” he mutters. He glances over at Cay. “Man, don’t do this. I swear I learned my lesson. You said you forgave me.”
Meanwhile, Caleb just smiles, casually putting the Jeep in park. “I did. But sometimes we need a reminder before the lesson can really sink in.”
Jake’s eyes go wide. “What do I have to do to make this stop?”
“What am I missing?” I say, popping my head between the seats. “Why are you two being weird?”
Caleb smirks. “It’s nothing, Hurricane. Jake here is just learning an important lesson in memorizing the days of the week.”
On that cryptic note, both guys slip out of the Jeep, their doors slamming shut in unison. I have no choice but to follow after them.
Live music floats through the autumn beachy air. A crowd of people is spread out across the many umbrella-clad tables. There’s a whole building of inside seating, but the charm of Rip’s is the outdoor bar area. People can walk up right off the beach and order food and drinks. Surfers, families with sandy-faced kids, couples on an evening stroll.
Nestled in its own cabana near the bar is a covered stage. A band is all set up playing cover music. As we turn the corner, I freeze. The woman at the mic singing this particular rendition of Shania Twain’s “That Don’t Impress Me Much” is none other than the Rays’ own Shelby O’Sullivan.
I gasp, eyes wide with excitement, as I snatch at Jake’s arm. “Wait—is it karaoke night?”
He sighs, looking nothing like his usually perky self. “Yep. And it was nice knowing you, Seattle.”
“What—”
I follow after him, my words cut off as the rest of the team notices us and hails us over. We make a huge show of cheering for Shelby as she finishes. Then she comes prancing back over to sit on Sully’s lap.
The Rays have snagged a few tables together, and there’s already a wide spread of salads, wings, fried pickles, and something I think might be gator tail bites. Jake and I settle down at the free end of Sully and Shelby’s table, while Caleb goes to shake hands with Novy and Langley.
“Hey, Doc!” Shelby calls to me with a wave. “You look like you came straight from work.”
“Yeah, I was stuck doing a training event downtown,” I explain, snatching a fried pickle out of the basket. “The guys picked me up on the way over.”
“That was nice of them,” she says, glancing their way.
“Parking can be a pain,” Jake mutters, helping himself to the pitcher of water. “Easier to take one car.”
Whether she buys our lame excuse or not, she’s quickly distracted by the arrival of Poppy and two more players.
“I better see the same turnout for our hospital benefit this weekend,” Poppy calls to the boys with narrowed eyes as she takes her seat.
Damn, that’s right. She hasn’t been subtle with her repeated nudges that we’re all expected to attend this fancy dinner and silent auction the day after we get back from Boston. These public relations events literally never end. I don’t know how Poppy finds the energy to do so much. It would run me ragged.
Pretty soon, the Rays have taken over half of Rip’s. The cover band is cranking out the tunes, as more people take their turn at the mic. Novy loses a coin toss with Langley and chooses to sing a terrible cover of a Backstreet Boys song. Then Poppy does a pretty great “Jolene” that has the whole bar whooping and cheering.
Glancing down the table at Jake, I see he’s still brooding, both hands wrapped around his second beer. I slide over and nudge his shoulder. “What are you doing, angel?”
“Contemplating the consequences of my actions,” he replies.
“What—”
“Hey, Hot Doc!” Langley calls from a table over. “You’re gonna sing, right? Daughter of a rock’n’roll legend, you gotta get up there and sing!”
“Yeah, sing,” Sully and Shelby cheer.
“Sing!”
“Oh no,” I call, raising both hands. “The gene totally skipped me. Believe me, if I get up there and sing, you’ll all need immediate medical attention.”
Most of the group laughs.
Before Langley can reply, the guitarist takes the mic. He’s a big guy, shaved head, maybe late forties. “Hey everyone, how y’all doin’ tonight?” he calls into the mic.
The crowd hoots and clinks beer glasses.
“Welcome to Riptide’s Bar & Grill,” he says to more cheers. “If you hadn’t noticed, this here is karaoke night at Rip’s, and we’re the Jacksonville 5,” he adds, waving at the band. “We’re gonna be up here playing for the next hour or so. The sign-up list is over at the end of the bar by Stacey—Stac, give the people a wave.”
A pretty blonde behind the bar gives a big smile and wave, holding up a tablet.
“But first—” He shields his eyes with his hand. “I’m told we’ve got Caleb Sanford in the house tonight.”
The Rays pound the tables.
“Yeah, Sanny!”
“Get it, Sanford!”
I go still, watching as even some of the regulars in the crowd go wild cheering for Caleb. Next to me, Jake groans.
“Sanford, come on up here,” the guitarist calls. “Come hold this for me while I chat up the pretty redhead at the bar.”
The bar crowd goes nuts as a lady in her mid-forties with red hair blushes. Meanwhile, our tables are still cheering for Caleb.
“Sanford! Sanford!”
“Get it Sanny!”
“Freebird!”
Caleb looks at me before leveling his eyes at Jake. Something is happening right now. The guys are in the middle of some contest. I can only assume it’s about me. I can tell by Caleb’s confidence and Jake’s spanked puppy look that Cay is winning. Slowly, he gets up from the table and the whole crowd cheers again. He weaves between our tables, patting Jake’s shoulder as he passes. Jake groans again.
Am I going to have to get in this middle of this?
“What’s wrong with you?” I say, giving Jake another nudge.
“I’m learning my lesson,” Jake replies. While the crowd is distracted, he turns to me, dropping his hand down to rest on my thigh. “Seattle, let’s go. Let’s get out of here.”
“What?” I cry. “We can’t just leave—”
“I will give you ten thousand dollars to leave with me right now,” he presses.
I roll my eyes at him. “Can he even play the guitar?” I say, distracted as I watch Caleb climb the stage and shake the guitarist’s hand before taking his guitar.
“Caleb Sanford, everybody!” the guitarist calls into the mic to more cheers.
Caleb tunes the guitar for a minute, his back turned to the crowd as he talks to the band. His dark coppery hair is messy and windblown from the Jeep. He’s wearing a black t-shirt, ripped jeans, his bare feet dusted with sand. I can’t help the little flutter in my stomach as I watch him step up to the mic. Oh yeah, this is working for Rachel.
He lowers his mouth to the mic, his voice deep as he says, “On behalf of the Jacksonville Rays, who are in the house tonight havin’ a great time…”
Our guys all hoot and clap.
“I’d like to dedicate this next song…to the hottest doc in the NHL.” Caleb looks right at me, and the Rays go wild.
“Yeah! Doc Price!”
“Hot Doc!”
“Don’t hurt ‘em, Doc!”
“Rachel Price,” Caleb calls over the noise. “This one is for you.”
My heart does a flip, and the Rays lose their minds as Caleb takes a deep breath and starts singing with no backup, both hands gently cradling the mic.
“Put your lovin’ hand out, baby…Cause I’m beggin’…”
The crowd screams as the band comes in. Caleb strums the guitar, the drummer pounds away, and they launch into an epically good cover of Måneskin.
“I’m beggin’, beggin’ you…So, put your lovin’ hand out, baby—”
My mouth opens in shock, and I swear my pussy bursts into flames. His voice is so hot—gravelly and low, sinful even. And the boy can play. He works the guitar, moving his shoulders as he strums. He looks right at me, extending his hand as he sings.
Holy fuck. I teased him about this the other night, and it turns out my moody Sagittarius is a musician. We’ve been dancing around each other for days, trying to find a way past our volcanic physical connection towards something deeper. I want to know him. I want to see inside his walls, see behind his hurt. He’s so much more than his trauma. He knows it too; he just doesn’t know how to let me in.
Well, now he’s on that stage using the lyrics to bare his soul.
Put your loving hand out.
He wants me to stay. He wants me to keep trying to find him. I smile as he plays, using whatever mind power I possess to send him a clear message.
I’m not going anywhere.
My pulse hums as his fingers strum the guitar. He’s so talented, standing up there looking like my perfect, broody, rocker boy fantasy. I know I laid down the law when it comes to PDA, but I swear to god, if this man drags me into the bar bathroom later, all laws will be broken.
