Reallystupid.
Julia snapped her fingers under his nose, and hestraightened. The men around him laughed and mumbled among themselves. Hecaught just enough to know they’d swap places with him in a heartbeat,murmuring about willingly being pussy-whipped by this particular pussy-whipper.
“Had enough?” she huffed at him.
“Not yet.”
The bartender shoved another full pint at him and winked.
“Look, you self-indulgent prick, either you leave with menow or stay here in this miserable dive.”
Uh-oh.I am introuble. He chugged the contents of the glass, pulled a wad of billsfrom his wallet, and dropped them on the bar top. “Another round for myfriends,” he announced. They cheered. Following Julia out the door, he wavedhis hand over his head.
Dazzling white seared his eyes; he quickly shaded them.“Christ, that’s bright!”
“Yeah, well, it’s the middle of the afternoon, when most ofus have to work. Get in. We’ll get your car when you’re sober.” Her voice wastight, as though she was fighting to keep it under control. He stumbled intothe passenger side and wrestled with the seat belt.
As she drove, he winced at the stern set of her jaw. Not agood look. Maybe he could soften it. Christ, he could use a hard fuck rightnow—assuming his dick would cooperate—and maybe she could too. The liquor hadn’tnumbed him completely, and the thought of spending a few hours blanking out inher bed gained momentum. He licked his lips, eyes drifting to her breasts,where his gaze lingered. As he pictured stuffing his face between them, heinched his fingers along her arm.
“Don’t,” she hissed, shooting him daggers. “God, just lookat yourself.”
Oh,here we go. Didn’t she give a rat’s ass about what went down in hismeeting and why he’d gotten hammered?Shoving his petulance and horniness aside, he slouched into theleather seat and closed his eyes. God, he was tired.
She grumbled something about being an idiot for dragging hissorry ass out of a bar on a workday afternoon, and he squeezed his eyes shut alittle tighter. Maybe if he squeezed hard enough, the part of his brain tellinghim she was right would freeze and conk out for a while, leaving him in peace.
CHAPTER 3
But I’m Comfortable with my Headin the Sand
Days later, clean-shaven and shorn,T.J. slid into a booth at a San Jose hotel bar across from a former teammate.Beckett Miller was a beast of a defenseman who’d been a veteran when T.J. firstbroke into the league with the LA Kings. Miller had been T.J.’s idol andmentor, and playing together had carried over when both were with the ColoradoBlizzard. That was before T.J. was traded and Miller got himself kicked off theteam.
Right now T.J. needed to talk to someone who’d been in hisskates. Miller had had his issues—majorissues—but he’d gotten his life together and was having an epic resurgence inthe NHL with Arizona, the team that had just arrived to play San Jose.
“Thanks for grabbing a cold one with me, Miller.”
“Sure,” Miller drawled. “It’s good to catch up.”
Their waitress, a leggy brunette in a short skirt andlow-cut top, deposited two pints of beer on their wooden tabletop. She bentover their table, giving them a better look at the goods. T.J. appraised hercleavage appreciatively, but Miller barely glanced her way.
As the waitress flounced away, T.J. clinked his glassagainst Miller’s. “So how’s playing for Arizona?”
Miller took a swig and set his drink down. “Good. We’ve gota great team this season.”
“I’ve seen your numbers. For a broken-down old-timer, you’rehaving one hell of a year.”
Miller grinned. “Yeah, it’s been fun proving those bastardswho called me ‘washed up’ wrong. Thirty-four and still whoopin’ass on punks like you.” He jerked his chin at T.J. “So how many games did theygive you?”
Could he discuss it with Miller, or did he need Pederson’spermission? No, he didn’t; his sentence was public knowledge. T.J. let out anoisy breath. “The rest of the season and all of playoffs.”
Miller whistled softly. T.J. waited but was disappointed hehadn’t added “Man, you didn’t deserve it” or even“That really sucks.” Confirmation from another hockey pro that May’s injury wasjust part of the game would’ve counted for a lot. T.J. sure wasn’t getting thatfrom his teammates. With the way they ignored him, his moniker could’ve been“The Invisible Man.” The silent rebuke stung.
T.J. took a long pull. “They claim they’re taking it easy onme because the tape showed most of the damage was done after May hit the ice.”
With a nod, Miller said, “They are taking it easy on you, considering itwas your punch that landed the guy there in the first place.” Miller’s sharpwords smacked T.J. square in the jaw, and he wrestledwith his rising anger. Miller didn’t seem to notice—or care.
The guy’s attitude grated. T.J. took another drink andscanned the dark bar, marshaling his thoughts, forcing resentment back down adeep, dank hole. “I was only doing what I was told to do. What I’m paid to do.”
Miller snorted. “Save it for the league and thecommissioner. What you did is yourshit, whether a coach told you to blindside the poor bastard or yourteammates egged you on, and you decided to park your brain. Maybe May deservedto be wrecked, and you got carried away. No matter how it went down, grow apair and own it.”
Dick.
Miller paused, taking another swallow. “So what’s yourplan?”
In a bid to distract himself, T.J. surveyed the place again,all burgundy suffused in gold. In one corner, a group of young women lookedtheir way and giggled. Puck bunnies. You could always find them hanging out atplayers’ hotels, looking to get lucky. A cute blond wiggled her fingers in atiny wave.
“Hey.” Miller snapped him back to their table. “You invited me to thisparty. You still with me?”
“Yeah, I’m here.”
“They aren’t going anywhere.” Miller tilted his head towardthe girls. “Maybe you didn’t hear me. What’s your plan?”
“Talking to you wasmy plan.” T.J. tipped the glass back and drained it. Miller raisedan expectant eyebrow. The thought that Miller might be right made a briefappearance in T.J.’s stewing mind. T.J. had invited him, though the reason why wasmurky at the moment. He rummaged around his brain
