ONE
BRODY
This club is too fuckingloud, or I’m too fucking old.
Both are probably true.
My daughter would be the first to remind me I’m too geriatric to be out this late, and she’s right. The pounding headache and my wavering patience that’s growing thinner by the second is far from enjoyable, but the blonde who’s been taunting me all night from across the club almost makes it tolerable.
I take another sip of my beer to stop myself from doing something stupid like going up to her and asking her name.
As if I don’t already know it.
Hannah Everett.
The younger sister of my second line left winger, Grant Everett, and someone I shouldn’t be within ten feet of.
That hasn’t stopped me from looking at her.
I drag my eyes away from her bare shoulders. I force myself to focus on something other than the flush on her skin when she lifts her arms above her head and sways to the beat of the music pulsing through the speakers.
When was the last time I was with a woman? Two years ago? Maybe three? The months blur together when the NHL season gets underway. Training camp late in September bleeds into theregular season then the post season, and now that I’m thinking about it, it might be closer to four years since my last rendezvous with someone other than my hand.
Christ.
I’m pathetic.
“You want another round?”
I glance at the bartender who’s pointing at my beer bottle. I strain to hear him over someone screaming into a microphone about being world champions and the answering round of applause and cheers. If it’s one of my players, they’re going to be in so much trouble. I’ll bang on their door at six in the morning as punishment for acting like a showboating dickbag.
I don’t give a damn about their hangover.
They might have won the Stanley Cup earlier tonight and brought the trophy back to DC for the second year in a row, but I’m not afraid to call them out if they do something stupid that embarrasses the franchise.
My headache is going to last all day tomorrow. Spending the start of my offseason in the DC Stars’ governors’ office while they lecture me about getting my players under control sounds like my idea of hell.
Coaching responsibilities and all of that.
“Nah. I’m good.” I pull out my wallet and find my credit card. “I’m going to close my tab.”
“It’s on the house tonight.”
“No the fuck it isn’t.”
“Yeah, it is.” The bartender laughs. “You’re the youngest coach in NHL history to win two Cups. Your money is no good here.”
“I don’t like when people argue with me.” I shrug off the praise and rifle through my wallet. Dropping five twenties on the counter, I shove the bills his way. “Take it.”
“Between the tips your players have left and the publicity they’ve generated from tagging us on social media, I’m going to be able to pay my rent for the rest of the year with tonight’s earnings. It means a lot.” He scoops up the money and shoves it in the overflowing tip jar. I spot plenty of hundred-dollar bills. Tons of twenties and fifties, and pride races through me. My guys might be menaces half the damn time, but they have good heads on their shoulders. “You want a water to go?”
“That would be?—”
“Leaving already? You can’t be that bored.”
A voice from behind me carries over the music and interrupts us. I glance over my shoulder and find Hannah smiling my way.
Suddenly I’m hot all over.
