He dropped out of our sweaty, smelly processional and lifted his wife into his arms, much to her laughing protest.
Stupid, happy people with their stupid, happy little lives.
Or maybe they were really the smart ones who had simply chosen better than I had.
The locker room was raucous as I took my seat in front of my locker. It never ceased to floor me that I had a nameplate on the thing. Not just a paper tag, or even a fucking post-it, but a real nameplate because I had an NHL contract. It was my second season with the Reapers—hell, it was only the second season for the Reapers, period, and it still hadn’t fully sunk in.
Brogan—one of the trades from LA, pushed past Connell and the Scotsman shook his head, no doubt already planning his retribution.
“That was an amazing play in the third,” he told me in his thick, Scottish burr as he sat on the bench next to me.
“Thanks. You had a pretty damn good game yourself,” I told him. I stripped off my jersey, then reached for the water I kept for post-game.
“Aye, I did,” he answered with a smug grin. “You know what I love about Sunday matinee games?”
“No clue, but I have a feeling you’re going to tell me.” I twisted the top on the water and started chugging.
“It’s early enough to head over to Scythe and see if I can get my Annabelle drunk.” He wiggled his eyebrows.
I scoffed but grinned. “Your girlfriend is the least likely person I know to get drunk in public.”
“Well, I wasn’t going to leave her in public for long.” He started stripping off his gear, still wearing a ridiculous smile.
Another stupid happy person with their stupid happy life.
Not that I could begrudge him, either. He’d fought hard to keep his girlfriend when the media had twisted his last interview around.
I showered off the sweat, but not my bad mood.
“Why don’t you come out with us?” Connell asked as I grabbed my keys from the top shelf of my locker.
“I’m not really a five p.m. drinker.”
“No, but you’re a mopey ass,” he chided.
“Come on,” Sawyer McCoy, the only player younger than I was, urged. “We’ll shut the bar down if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“It wasn’t, but now I am.” I’d closed all my social media accounts so I didn’t have to see the shit Blaire posted or tagged me in, but I still hated being cornered where people could take pictures.
“Well, good thing Sawyer’s woman owns the place.” Connell slung his arm over my shoulders. “Cannon? Convince him.”
Cannon rolled his eyes and hefted his bag over his shoulder. “Fuck it. I’ll go. You need a break, Ward.”
It wasn’t exactly what I considered a break, but twenty minutes later, I found myself tucked into the back corner of the bar with a glass of water and half my team. We hadn’t shut the bar down, but enough locals were used to us being here that they left us alone.
I thumbed through my text messages, hoping Delaney would have texted, but no such luck. We’d traded texts in the last week, but I hadn’t seen her since dinner over a week ago.
“You looking for someone special in there?” Connell asked, leaning over to see.
“Fuck off,” I retorted as I stuck the phone in my back pocket.
Cannon stared at me knowingly.
He was joined by Connell, Axel, Lukas, Sawyer, and even Sterling—another new guy.
“You fucks are entirely too nosey,” I muttered, shaking my head. “Fine. Yes, there’s a woman—”
Connell let out a pre-school, “Oooh,” but I kept going.
“—but we’re just friends.”
Cannon’s eyebrow rose, but he stayed silent.
“Tell us more,” Lukas sang in a schoolgirl voice as he propped his chin on his hands and leaned forward.
“You guys are worse than your wives, you know that?” I motioned toward where the Reaper wives and girlfriends occupied the stools that ran the length of the bar. None of them batted an eye or even moved. They wanted the details. “Okay, she’s a librarian, and sure, she’s gorgeous and smart, and really fucking funny, and just…” I sighed, looking for the right words. “She’s genuine. What you see is what you get, and that is exactly what I need right now.”
“But you don’t want to fuck her?” Nathan asked as he leaned against the end of the booth. The defenseman wasn’t just badass on ice, he was also engaged to the owner of the Reapers’ sister—Harper.
“What? No. I mean, yeah, of course I do. She’s a fucking knockout.”
Cannon growled, which earned him more than one glance from our team.
“But I’m not going to,” I said, clearly enunciating every word. “I know she’s your friend, man, and I’m in no position to start something while I’m this fucked in the head. I just really like spending time with her.”