So this year, when he calls me tomorrow to tell me how much I fucked up on the ice tonight, my usual positive mantra of “There’s always next year” will be even emptier than usual. Because what if there isn’t a next year?
I need to drink more. Or less. One or the other. My thoughts are going to dark places.
“Need me to call you a ride back to the hotel?” Wagner asks.
“Nah. ’S’all good.”
Maybe I should search gay bars in the area and go fuck all this depression out. Because drowning myself in sex is the mature and logical response.
I know I’ve been to a couple in this city before, but I can’t remember them now. Or their names.
I half stand, half fall off my stool and throw some cash down on the bar for a tip. Then I move on wobbly legs and fumble my way out to the street.
The words on my phone are blurry as I type in gay bar Philadelphia, and when it turns up with weird-ass results, I blink into focus what I actually wrote.
Gay butt Philly cheese.
I’ll bookmark that for later.
My second attempt works, and I find there’s one only two blocks away. I could walk it. Uh, slowly. Because my feet don’t want to cooperate.
If I’d known I’d have to walk past a sports bar, I would have Ubered somewhere else.
I’m too busy glaring up at all the orange and black that paints the building and listening to the rowdy celebratory crowd to watch where I’m going, when—
“Oof.”
Ouch, whatever wall I ran into hurts. Doesn’t help I’m bruised from how many hits I took tonight. Okay, and gave.
Then I come face-to-face with said wall and find my worst nightmare. Philly fans.
Three of them. Tall as they are wide.
“No wonder you guys lost tonight when you hit like that, Palaszczuk.”
Hey, it’s not my fault his chest is twice the size of mine and I practically bounced off him. I ain’t no delicate wallflower.
I have two options here. Keep walking or talk back.
My mind scoffs at me. Please, I’m Ezra-fucking-Palaszczuk. I don’t know the meaning of walking away from a fight. “The other team was lucky.”
“7-1 lucky?” one of his friends snickers.
“Boston sucks,” the other one says.
“Fuck you.” I try to push my way through them, but the bigger guy in front shoves me.
I’m drunk as shit and stumble, almost falling to the ground. I manage to right myself and charge toward this asshole to show him what it’s like to take a hit from a professional hockey player.
My fist connects with his jaw with a satisfying crack, but then his two friends are on me, and all hell breaks loose.
I’m trying to wrench myself away when I’m jerked backward and a body moves in front of me, blocking me from getting my head punched in. Or worse, my pretty face. I swear I’m one broken nose away from being … unattractive. That would be a travesty for all gaykind.
Turns out I was wrong. Philly fans are not my worst nightmare. Being protected from them by Anton Hayes is.
“Hey, guys, back up a bit, okay? Palaszczuk is drunk and doesn’t know what he’s doing. It’s not much different to when he’s sober, really, but it’s plain mean to pick on him when he’s like this. It would be like stealing a kid’s ice cream and then shoving it in their face.”
Suddenly, they’re all wide eyes and sweet smiles. Oh, and laughing. Can’t forget the laughing.
“Anton Hayes? Is this really happening?” This big bear of a man turns into a puddle of fanboying.
“Here, let me sign your jersey,” Hayes says.
“Oh, please,” I mutter behind his back.
He looks over his shoulder at me, and I don’t like the smug expression.
For a hockey player, he has the straightest teeth of anyone in the league. His dark hair is styled with gel, parted on the side like a preacher boy, and it looks nothing like it does on the ice when he takes his helmet off. It usually falls in his face and around his neck in wet strands.
If there’s anything I hate more than Anton Hayes, it’s how good-looking he is.
He signs each of their jerseys with a pen he pulls from God knows where—not even I’m egotistical enough to carry a Sharpie—and then Anton tells them there’s a few more guys from the team inside and gets the bouncer’s attention to let in his new friends.
“Let them know I sent you to annoy them. They’ll love it.”
With them thoroughly distracted, I make my escape. Or, I try to.
Anton catches up with me. “Where are you rushing off to? Another bar fight on the schedule?”
I shove my hands into my pockets and keep walking. “Is it really a bar fight when it was outside the bar?”
“What happened anyway?” His low voice always sounds so cocky and patronizing. “I only caught the tail end. You know, where you clocked one of them.”