Bennett (On the Line 2)

He didn’t need to lie to get ass, and he knew it. It just seemed to amuse him to do it anyway.

I didn’t like lying, and I also didn’t like groups of single women vying for attention at the same time. I preferred a one-on-one conversation. I scanned the bar, hoping to see one or two women who caught my interest, but no one did.

“Bennett,” a female voice called.

I looked over and saw Molly, the bartender, setting a tall glass of draft beer on the bar.

“Nice game tonight,” Molly said. “On the house, winger.”

I grinned at her and sat down in front of the drink. “Thanks.”

“Where are the other two stooges?”

I knew she meant Killian and Liam. We usually went out together after games.

“Liam’s over there, and I don’t know where Killian’s at,” I said. “He was kinda in a mood.”

“After a win?”

“He’s a moody bastard.”

I took a drink of the cold beer and nodded with appreciation.

“How’s Dean?” I asked Molly.

“He’s good,” she said of her husband, smiling. “This is his last semester of grad school, and then I’m probably quitting this job.”

“Gonna start popping out some kids?”

She laughed. “Not yet. We’ve only been married for a year.”

A customer gestured at her for another drink and Molly left. I finished my beer and ordered another, watching the news on the TV behind the bar. NHL highlights came on, and I stared at the screen, riveted.

I’d been dreaming of the big time since I was a kid. I was on the first line of my team, but Killian was a notch ahead of me. He’d get the call before me. And he deserved it.

Would my time ever come? Or would I be trolling around Fenway, Indiana after games looking for a hookup until my body wore out or I retired from the minors?

>

Those questions always made me pensive. Normally, I was happy-go-lucky, but wondering if I’d ever make it was tough. I was about to get up and go home to sleep off my mood when a woman flopped down on the barstool next to me.

She was stunning, with long, dark blond curls and blue eyes. I just stared for a second, too mesmerized to consider how rude it was.

“Charlotte,” Molly said, smiling as she walked over. “How are you?”

“Not good,” Charlotte said. “Bring me all the alcohol, Moll.”

“Got it. I’ll break out the strong stuff.”

Charlotte was trying to take off her coat, but her arm was stuck in the sleeve.

“Need some help?” I offered.

“No,” she snapped, still trying to get her arm out. “Well, maybe.”

I held back a smile as I took hold of the coat sleeve to help her.

“Rough night?” I asked.