Hard Pass (St. Louis Mavericks 3)

“Oh, I don’t think—”

“Come on,” Nash interrupted me, his eyes meeting mine. They were so damn blue. Like liquid sapphire mixed with passion.

Oh, what the hell was I thinking?

“It’ll be fun,” Mo said. “And with Nash there, he’ll deter any creepers who come sniffing around.”

“Well, in that case, I’m in. But you two have to let me get some work done.” I made a shooing motion with my hands. “Get out of here. Both of you.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Nash playfully saluted me as he and Mo sauntered over toward her office.

For what was probably the millionth time, I reached into my desk drawer for my phone, hoping for a text from Rob, but there was nothing.

Damn.

As much as it pained me, it was probably time to move on. And going out tonight might help me get past the disappointment.

The new club we went to was nice. It was called Quest, and was a combination nightclub and restaurant. Dinner seating was limited, but the place was massive, decorated with a funky style of furnishings that gave it a steampunk vibe. I’d never been to a place like this before and it was as beautiful as it was interesting. Nirvana’s “Come As You Are” was blasting from the loudspeakers in the main room, but our group was taken back to a reserved area in what could only be described as a mezzanine. It was up half a flight of stairs, with glass walls that allowed you to look down into the main part of the restaurant while simultaneously blocking out enough of the music to allow for conversation.

It was a medium-sized area, filled with a good mix of big and small tables. There were iron chandeliers and funky candleholders, combined with velvet furnishings and a variety of love seats and cushioned chairs. The decor was eclectic as hell, but everything was clean and new, giving it an expensive feel.

“This place is cool as shit,” Nash said to me as we settled at one of the tables, along with Mo, Lars, his fiancée Sheridan, Boone, a woman Boone was dating named Fiona, and Konstantin.

“It really is,” I agreed, looking around. “I’d been reading about the grand opening, so it’s great we could get in here.”

“Sheridan made a few calls,” Nash said. “Thank god there’s a supermodel in the family. Otherwise, there’s a six-month waiting list for dinner reservations.”

“Holy shit.” My eyes widened. “That’s nuts. I can’t imagine there’s any food I’d want to wait six months for.”

“I don’t think it’s about the food,” he mused, leaning back in his chair. “I think it’s about being seen and mingling with the right people.”

“Do you make it a point to mingle with the right people?” I asked quietly.

He shook his head. “Nah. I’m just a hockey player who happened to get offered a fuckton of money to do an underwear ad. Someday, I’m not gonna be able to play hockey anymore, so that’s the kind of thing that helps me save for my future. Sure, I make great money now, but there are a lot of expenses too, and anyone who doesn’t plan for something unexpected is taking a big risk.”

Nash continued to surprise me. Every so often, the smart-ass hockey player took a back seat to a much more thoughtful, mature guy that I liked a lot more than I thought I would.

“That’s smart,” I said, nodding.

“Have you looked at this menu?” Sheridan called out. “It’s as crazy as the decor.”

“Oh, check it out,” Nash said, opening his menu. “They have raclette.”

“What is that?” I asked. It sounded vaguely familiar but I didn’t think I’d ever tried it.

“It’s awesome. It’s both a type of cheese and the name of the appetizer that uses the cheese. Basically, you melt it and scrape it off the top. We have to get some. You’ll love it.”

“That sounds delicious.”

“There’s a great wine list too,” Boone said. “Anyone interested in sharing a bottle of malbec?”

“I’m in,” Nash nodded as he looked at me. “You?”

“Sure.”

The waiter brought two bottles and glasses for our whole table. Conversation was light as we ate and drank. The raclette was one of the best things I’d ever put in my mouth and I couldn’t help but ruminate over the different sides to Nash I kept discovering.

He was a loud, obnoxious professional athlete who was always planning pranks on his teammates, telling dirty jokes, and generally making a nuisance of himself. He was an amazing athlete, and from what I’d heard, a smart, hardworking teammate. He was also so good-looking it was hard to look away when he fixed those long-lashed blue eyes on you.

But then there was the other side of Nash. The one who tirelessly signed postcards and other swag to help the team, charity, or almost anyone who asked, really. He was fiercely protective of his friends, enjoyed good food and wine, and I’d honestly never seen him moody or irritating. I’d seen his playful side, his serious side, and his professional side—and they were all on point. He was the whole damn package, which was confusing as hell because I usually avoided guys like him. Rich, successful, over-the-top-good-looking men were always trouble.