myself get talked into coming to Overtime with the team? It’s about as awkward as can be expected. No, it’s worse. I’d rather endure a gynecological exam. With an audience.
The only upside, however marginal, is that things between me and Preston have been surprisingly harmonious since our disastrous kiss. Maybe he’s picked up on the heavy hints that I’ve been dropping. Or at least, I hope he has, because I want to avoid one of those awkward talks where you try to let someone down gently. I’ve never been good at them.
“The team is fun to watch this year,” Preston says. “There’s a lot of good talent. Especially Banks. He has some of the best hands in the entire division.”
I glance down to the other end of the table, where Vaughn is laughing with the team. He’s one of the only guys who doesn’t have a girl hanging off him. Obviously by choice, because he’s got the tall, dark, and tattooed thing down pat. There are a lot of rumors about him and why he’s rarely seen with anyone, but I don’t know the backstory. Nash never really commented on it.
“His goal in the third was amazing,” I agree, turning my attention back to Preston.
“Our defense has come a long way, too.” He leans forward, gesturing with his beer. “Richards is crushing it this year. He must be doing better after that AC joint injury last season, huh?”
My mouth goes dry. “Seems that way, yeah.”
It’s not a total lie. To most people, it does seem that way. Nash has developed significantly as a player since I last saw him play over two years ago. Physically, he’s filled out as well, which I’m sure makes for a scary sight barreling for you at full tilt on the ice. Probably why guys tend to dump the puck and run when they see him coming. His body checks must feel like getting hit by a freight train.
Julianna sinks down next to us, and Preston leaves to use the bathroom. Once he disappears, Jules reaches across the table and pats my hand, giving me an apologetic look. “Thanks for coming. I know this is weird for you.”
More specifically, I had a mild freakout once we got to Julianna’s car, and she talked me into coming once I calmed down enough to listen. She said it would be a good way to get to know the team, but I already know more than I want to about number twenty-seven.
While Jules may not admit it, I know it’s a ploy for her to get closer to Marcus, the team captain. It’s probably fair game for them to hook up since he’s in Preston’s training group and not Julianna’s, but I get a bit of a sleazy vibe from him.
“It’s okay,” I tell her, lowering my voice so no one around us can hear. Logically, if I have to see Nash all semester, I might as well get used to it. Call it exposure therapy. “But you have to drive me home like we agreed. I can’t be alone with Preston again. We still haven’t talked about that kiss.”
“Deal. You’re coming home with me no matter what. We don’t have to stay very long, either. Let’s have one drink and go.”
I relax into my chair. “Thank you.”
To be fair, the rest of the team has been incredibly welcoming. Some in a friendly way, others in a flirty way that makes me think they have a death wish because Nash has leveled several murderous glares in their direction. Other than that, he’s pretending like I’m not even here. I’m trying to do the same, but that’s easier said than done.
On the side of the table where Nash is seated, the waitress appears with a tray of shots. While it’s a weeknight, this isn’t overly surprising. A lot of athletes party hard all week long, though I have no idea how they manage to keep up with their training. My attention slides over to them. I’m eavesdropping a little, but I can’t help it.
“Tequila.” Connor slides a shot glass over to Nash, who pushes it back and gives him a withering look.
“We’re supposed to celebrate after we win games.”
Connor retorts, “The alcohol is a consolation prize.”
“Gonna need a whole lot of consoling after Coach Ward bag skates us for an hour tomorrow morning,” Drew points out.
“No shit,” Nash says. “Plus, I’m driving tonight, remember?”
This piques my interest. Maybe Nash doesn’t drink and party as much anymore as I thought. He definitely did more than his fair share freshman year. Some people outgrow it in college, while others don’t. Case in point, Connor.
“Ugh.” Connor throws his head back. “You’re all boring.”
“Are you looking forward to the away game next month?” Julianna asks me, bringing my focus back to her.
“Super excited,” I lie.
Traveling with the team is a huge honor. But being stuck on a bus with Nash for three hours each way, and then at the same hotel for two nights, is more than a little problematic. I’ll be sleeping a few doors down the hall from my ex, sharing meals with him and the team, all while trying to pretend there was never an “us” in the first place.
Jules takes a sip of her rum and Coke, placing the glass back down on the table. “If you think about it, it’s kind of like traveling for work. Our first work trip, which is exciting . . .”
I’m half-listening to her when some girl strolls up to Nash, eyeing him like he’s the only guy in the whole place. Perfectly styled, dark glossy hair falls in front of her face as she places a hand on his arm and leans in closer, saying something in his ear. They’re clearly well-acquainted, probably intimately acquainted if I had to guess, and seeing them together is like sandpaper against my heart.
He shakes his head in response to something she says and then his gaze lifts, scanning the crowded bar. Our eyes lock, and a jolt of electricity runs through my body. Shit. I’ve been caught. I immediately avert my eyes and pretend to focus on Julianna.
“You know what? I’m going to grab a refill after all,” I tell her, pushing my chair away from the table as I stand. I’m certain I can still feel Nash’s gaze weighing down on me, but I don’t dare glance over to check.
Steadfastly avoiding even the slightest glimpse in Nash’s direction, I weave around the other tables and approach the bar, ordering a second rum and Coke. Something about my face must reveal that I’m having a hellacious night, because the female bartender gives me a pitying look and tells me it’s on the house. She turns away to mix my highball, and I stuff a handful of bills into the glass mason tip jar on the counter while I wait.
Is Nash still talking to that girl? I sneak a peek and confirm that, much to my dismay, he is. I hate that it bothers me. It’s beyond none of my business. Obviously, he’s been with other girls since we broke up. I’ve been with other guys, too. Still, knowing that and seeing it are two different things. I’ve let myself live in a cloak of complete obliviousness for the past two years. It was comfortable; warm and fuzzy, trimmed with denial. And thanks to that, the irrational part of my brain still thinks he’s a little bit mine.
Though I have to say, from the looks of it, he’s not really flirting back.
“Basketball is the superior sport, you know.” A deep voice interrupts my thought spiral and I jump slightly, turning to find a tall, lanky guy peering down at me.
His chestnut curls tumble over his forehead and his grin is flirty, the dimples in his cheeks peeking through. The skin on the back of my neck tingles, and I steal a glance to my right, unsurprised to find this interaction has drawn Nash’s attention. The brunette is still talking to him, gesturing animatedly, but his gaze is fixed on me with laser-like precision. I doubt he’s listening to a word she’s saying, and I’m filled with a warped sense of satisfaction at the knowledge.
“Are you here with the Grizzlies?” the guy asks, bringing my focus back to him.
I utter a nervous laugh. “Sort of. I’m doing my athletic training internship with the team.”
“Nice,” he says. “I’m Devin. Point guard for the basketball team.”
“Violet. Uh, trainer for the Grizzlies. Like I said.” Smooth, Violet. I’m not especially interested in Devin, but even if I was, it would be impossible to flirt when there’s a furious giant shooting daggers at us with his eyes from afar. Which is Nash’s intention, I’m sure.
Devin continues, “Why don’t you come join our table for a—“
Before he can finish his sentence, Nash stalks up to the bar in a blur of menace and comes to stand beside me. Right beside me, so close that I can feel the heat rolling off him in waves. The clean, masculine scent of his cologne invades my airspace, and my stomach does a pirouette. Nash levels a poisonous glare in Devin’s direction but says nothing.
Devin shoots him a bored look. “Need something, Richards?”
“Fuck off, Henderson.” Nash slides an arm around my waist, sending a rush through my body that I want to call irritation but it might be something else.
What a hypocrite. He had a girl all over him not even two seconds ago. Did I swoop in and act all territorial? No. I watched it from afar while pretending not to, like a normal person.
“It’s not your place—“ I start to say.
“Now.“ Nash juts his chin, his attention still fixed on Devin. “Unless you’d like to watch the rest of your season from a hospital bed.”
Devin rolls his eyes, but it’s clear he doesn’t want to get into it with Nash. Most sane people wouldn’t.
There’s a pause as they engage in a silent, testosterone-fueled pissing match. Nash’s jaw ticks, his steely glare intensifying. Devin eyes him for another beat as if considering, but I suspect he’s fully aware that an altercation would not work out in his favor. Hockey is physical in a way that basketball is not. While Devin has a slight height advantage, Nash is twice as built and has years of experience fighting on- and off- the ice.
I nearly interject again, but something in my gut tells me there’s more going on than I’m privy to at the moment. Nash’s reaction is extreme, even for him.
Finally, Devin glances down at me with a cocky smile. “Come grab me later if you want.”
“Not going to happen,” Nash practically snarls.
Once Devin turns to leave, I swat Nash’s hand away. An unwelcome chill spreads across my torso where his arm was. I’ve never been so annoyed with someone while also wanting to strip off all of their clothes. I’m a lost cause.
“You’re an asshole.”
“Never said I wasn’t.”
The bartender sets my drink on the black laminate counter, sliding it over to us, and Nash leans over the bar to order a beer. When he turns back to face me, instead of looking annoyed like I expect, his green eyes gleam with amusement. He’s actually enjoying this. I should have known.
“You can’t act like that every time a guy talks to me.”
“Don’t worry, I already told the team you’re off-limits. Word will travel around campus from there, and that issue will take care of itself. No one who values their life will get within ten feet of you.” He takes a sip of his beer, his lips forming a smirk against the mouth of the amber-colored bottle. It simultaneously makes me want to slap him and wish I were that beer.
Like I said, lost cause.
“Off-limits? Why?” Bringing my drink to my mouth, I huff a sardonic laugh around the black plastic straw.
He tilts his head and gives me a look that says he can’t tell whether I’m messing with him or I’m legitimately dense. “Why do you think?”
“Trust me, I have zero interest in dating any of your teammates. But like I was saying, it isn’t your place to scare guys off. We’re ancient history.”
“Hardly.” Taking another step, he comes to stand directly above me, the warmth of his skin heating mine. “We were too many things to ever be ancient history.”
My focus settles on his lips, and desire throbs between my legs at the memories of them all over my body. Dammit, no. I shouldn’t be thinking like this, especially not under the influence of alcohol.
“Many of those things were bad,” I manage.
“Many of them were good.”
The good times were good. Delicious. Amazing. Sweet, even. But the bad times were brutal.
I pause because the only comeback I can formulate is too painful to verbalize out loud. Satisfaction flickers across Nash’s face like he just won our argument. Maybe he did.
Nash rests his elbow on the bar, pointing behind me with the neck of his beer. “Circling back to our basketball player friend, do you know who that guy is?”
I follow his direction to the far corner, where Devin is standing with a group of guys next to one of the pool tables. Based on the fact that they’re all a head taller than every other patron, I assume they must be the rest of the basketball team. Basketball isn’t as big of a deal on campus as hockey, so they don’t get nearly as much airtime. I’m not familiar with most of the athletes.
Like Nash’s team, they’re accompanied by a handful of beautiful girls fawning all over them. Several of the guys even have multiple girls competing for their attention at once like some miniature, impromptu version of The Bachelor.
One thing I don’t miss about dating an athlete? Groupies.
“He said he plays point guard. Beyond that, not a clue.”
“Devin is a fucking creep.”
I scoff, taking another ill-advised sip of alcohol. “There is some serious irony behind the idea of you protecting me. Not to mention, it’s none of your business.”
“It is absolutely my business.” His voice deepens, turning gruff. “If Devin roofies your drink—which he’s known for doing—I’m the one who will be taking care of you later because you’re sure as fuck not leaving with him.”
Roofies? A wave of nausea hits me, and I nearly choke mid-sip.
“Oh,” I croak. I can’t believe I didn’t know this. I listed the men’s basketball team as my second internship choice.
“I know several girls who’ve woken up in Henderson’s bed with no idea what happened the night before. Enough that it isn’t a coincidence.” Nash raises his dark eyebrows. “You know, for someone in the athletic training program, you are shockingly out of touch with the athletics world.”
For some reason, his comment stings. I guess I’m no longer accustomed to his searing lack of tact.
“Why, because I don’t stay up to date on all the varsity gossip? Did it ever occur to you that might be intentional? I’ve been trying to avoid all the stories about you sleeping with half of the girls in our school.”
The statement is a little too raw, and immediately, I want to take it back. Not because it’s potentially hurtful, but because it shows how much I still care. Pretending Nash never existed was the only coping mechanism I had. I’m not indifferent to him, much as I wish I was.
A rare glimmer of hurt crosses his face, but he recovers quickly, and his tone hardens. “Well, some of that gossip might contain useful information. Like who the date rapists are around campus.”
“How did I ever survive without you?” I take a sip of my drink, giving him a faux earnest look. I’d like to say I’m being difficult to keep up my walls, but the ugly truth of it is, part of me enjoys riling him up. I’m pretty sure, deep down, part of him enjoys it, too. Especially one part in particular.
Nash’s jaw tenses, his irritation visibly ramping up another notch. I bat my eyelashes at him, and he narrows his eyes, slowly shaking his head—but I don’t miss the tiniest hint of a smile playing on his lips. The rational part of me knows that it’s wrong, but he’s extra hot when he’s angry. Possibly because it reminds me of the make-up sex that always followed our arguments.
God, we used to have incredible make-up sex. Clothes flying, frenzied kisses, and hands everywhere, tearing off clothes. If we were still together, this is the part where he’d drag me into the bathroom and fuck some sense into me.
Not that I want that to happen.
“Between this and that murder trap of a transit station,” he says slowly, “I’m not sure how you survived, either.”
I set my glass on the bar, tucking an errant strand of hair behind my ear. “Now you’re just being dramatic.”
“Call it what you want.” Grabbing our drinks in one hand, he places his other hand on my lower back, steering me back over to our table. “And don’t expect it to change.”
