“Did you expect anything less?” I chide, clinking my glass against his.
He shakes his head, but the truth is, I sound more confident than I felt on the hill today.
My knee ached the whole way down. But I made it to the end of the run, and I intend to make it all the way to the World Cup Final, too. I’m determined to redeem myself for an ugly end to last year’s season.
The thump of the music blasting from the DJ booth comes to a halt as the crowd turns to face me, eagerly awaiting a speech. I run my fingers through my hair, still sweaty and matted from being in my helmet, and I think of a cheeky remark to make about my win. It’s what the people want, what they’ve come to expect from me now. But as I’m about to open my mouth, the audience in front of me parts, and an angry looking brunette stomps towards me.
She’s gorgeous, all tall, slender limbs, the frown on her face accentuating her high, sharp cheekbones.
Shit.
I recognize her from last night. Brianna, or Bridget, or Beth. I can’t remember. Whatever it is, it starts with a B. All Iknow is that we had one wild night of fun to ease my pre-competition jitters.
“B—” I start, but before I can get any sounds out, she throws her drink at me, covering me head to toe in a sticky, pink liquid. I grind my molars, clenching my jaw, before shaking off the irritation. It’s not the first time I’ve had a woman throw their drink on me.
The contents of Brianna or Bridget or Beth’s cocktail drips from the tips of my shaggy, chestnut brown hair. It soaks through the slim-fit t-shirt I’m wearing and lands in a puddle at my feet, while Brianna stares daggers at me.
I swipe my index finger down my cheek and lick it, the tart taste of cranberry coating my tongue.
It’s a cosmo.
“Well? Do you have anything to say for yourself?”
Her friend stands at her side, arms crossed over their chest, also awaiting my response. It seems everyone is. And it seems like everyone is in on the joke except me as I stand here, mind blank and unable to formulate a thought. I was hoping to enjoy the night, to let loose after months of training for this, but no such luck.
Bridget, or whatever her name is, found me anyways. They always do. The ones who can’t leave it at a one-night stand always have a way of coming back for more. No matter how clearly or carefully I communicate that I’m not interested in a relationship.
Or, they come back for vengeance, which, based on the scowl on Beth’s face, is the case, though I’m at a loss for why.
I let my mouth slide into an unbothered grin, the cosmo she threw at me still coating my lips.
“Well, Beth,” I start. Beth seems like a safe option. I’ll gowith Beth. Odds are one in three. “It seems like you were my lucky charm.”
Her scowl deepens, rage igniting behind her eyes.
“My name isBella.” She spits. “And if I had a second drink, I’d throw that one on you, too.”
Bella.Well, I wasn’t expecting that. She didn’t strike me as a Bella. Someone steps forward andso kindlyhands her a beer, a whole pint, over her shoulder. It also ends up all over me, leaving me shocked and stunned.
Bella steps closer to me, leaning in so that only I can hear her hiss, “I knew you were a playboy, but I didn’t know you were also acheat.”
She spins on her heel and makes her way out of the bar, her friend in tow. I glance towards the crowd, half expecting them to launch into hysterical laughter at the spectacle, but they don’t.
The air in here has shifted, and all I get back are glares and disdainful scoffs as people return to their conversations.
Dan pushes his way through the crowd to get to me. He places a hand on my shoulder, quickly recoiling as he feels how wet my t-shirt is, and wipes the residue on his dark jeans. The music has restarted, and he leans in, having to shout over it.
“We’ve got a bit of a situation.”
I cock my head at him in question, but he doesn’t explain, just gestures for me to follow him. And because I’m not exactly enjoying being the centre of attention atthisparty anymore, I do.
Dan leads me down through the restaurant and out to the street where a waiting town car is pulled up to the curb.He instructs the driver to take us to my house as we climb inside.
“Want to fill me in on what’s going on?” I ask, once it’s clear that he’s not going to readily offer up an explanation.
His mouth forms a tight line as he gives me a subtle shake of his head, anot nowlook thrown in my direction. I know Dan well enough by now to not push it further.
The car pulls away and slowly makes its way through the streets of Banff.
