She winks at me. “My guess is, that dress will do you some favors. What can I get you, hon?”
Little does she know, I have zero interest in getting involved with anyone tonight. Maybe a little flirting, since there are some options here, but nothing serious.
“Uh, my friend always orders a Malibu Bay Breeze with a cherry, so I’ll get that for her, and I’ll have a gimlet with two lime wedges.”
“Coming right up,” the bartender says. She moves around, grabbing clean cups and plucking the correct liquor bottles while eyeing her pours. I’d never be able to bartend, trying to remember the intricacies of every drink ever mentioned while keeping the intoxicated patrons happy. Way too much for me.
“Gimlet, huh? Never would have pegged you as a gin drinker,” a husky, deep voice says, coming up to my side.
I know that voice.
I think almost everyone in Vancouver knows that voice.
Turning to my right, I come face to face with Eli Hornsby, the best defenseman in the game of hockey who just happens to play for the team I work for, the Agitators. But more importantly, he’s Mr. Prince Charming, the sexiest hockey player in the league, and the . . . horniest. He’s easily the most attractive player on the ice, a flirt, and the object of every hockey fan’s affection—even the men. He’s menacing with a stick in his hand but will captivate you with his charismatic smile—a smile that still contains all of his teeth. And of course, one of my brother’s best friends.
“Hornsby, wh-what are you doing here?” I ask, a hitch in my voice, because not a moment goes by when I’m not intimidated by this man and how insanely hot he is.
Also, I’m a little shocked to see him here. A singles bar on Valentine’s Day doesn’t really seem on brand for him. Then again, he is the biggest player on the team, so he might be out and about on his night off, trolling for someone to hook up with.
Nowthatseems on brand.
“Oh, you know, just celebrating the day I was born.” He leans against the bar and takes a sip of the beer in his hand. Casual, in control, and I’m sure aware of how good he looks in his navy three-piece suit.
I don’t know anyone, and I mean ANYONE, who wears a suit better than Eli Hornsby.
I’ve posted a few slow-motion videos of him walking into the arena, highlighting him as the best dressed on the team. His signature cigarette pants paired with no socks and dress shoes is what grabs everyone’s attention, not to mention the way he fills out his suit jacket, his biceps tugging on the fabric when he brings his to-go cup of coffee to his lips.
He’s a thirst trap I have no problem posting.
But now that said thirst trap is standing in front of me, staring into my eyes, I feel my nerves spike with the urge to either pet his chest or run to the toilet to throw up. Two very opposite reactions, but two very accurate ones.
As casually as possible, I place my hand on the bar and attempt to lean into the wood, mirroring his relaxed position. But where he is the quintessential poster child for how to act appropriately in social settings, I am praying to Cupid himself my dress doesn’t curl up like an old-fashioned window blind and slap me in the face while simultaneously flashing my underwear to the hot hockey player.
Oh God . . . what underwear did I put on today? Why can’t I remember such an imperative detail?
“Are you, uh . . . okay?” he asks, bending at the knees to look me directly in the eyes.
Oh crap, I haven’t said anything.
“Yes, fine. Just great.” I snap my fingers aggressively at him. “Oh, that’s right. Today is your birthday. I posted a TikTok about it.”
“Yes,” he says, eyeing me suspiciously. Probably trying to decide if he should be wary of approaching fingers of the snapping variety. “You posted a boomerang video of Posey slapping me in the ass with his hockey stick.”
I did. It was really funny. I chuckle to myself, a snort begging to be let out, but someone is looking out for me because I’m able to keep it together. “I thought it was a fitting tribute since the fans seem to enjoy your recent bromance.”
Levi Posey, the team’s bruiser. Large, bulky guy with the biggest heart of gold. He’s an absolute demon on the rink, but outside of the arena, he is as soft and gooey as they come. The most sensitive on the team, who has a penchant for bologna sandwiches and slapping Hornsby on the ass with his stick before the start of every game. It’s become a treasured tradition among the fans.
“We share one milkshake, and everyone thinks we’re practically engaged.” Eli rolls his eyes.
Ahhh, the milkshake. It was the most precious thing I’ve ever seen. Eli and Levi were at a Children’s Hospital event together, and they were given a milkshake with two straws. Locking eyes, they held the drink together, and each took a straw into their mouths. The show they put on was public relations gold. The media team has used it as much as they can. It was even a Top Ten on ESPN.
“It was damning. You are now forever connected at the hip.”
“Could be worse.” He grins. Ooof, that smile. My hand that’s not on the bar rattles by my side from one glint of his pearly whites. “I could have been caught sharing a milkshake with your brother.”
“Pacey would never share a milkshake with you,” I say, and before I can stop myself, I add, “He would claim you have some sort of infectious disease he doesn’t want to contract.”
Pacey, my brother, is the star goalie for the Vancouver Agitators. He’s the heart of the team and has some of the quickest reflexes in the league. Recently, like . . . a few months ago, he fell in love with a girl named Winnie who just happened to stumble into him during a rainstorm. Long story, but he was bewitched immediately. I don’t blame him because she’s all kinds of cute and fun. I love hanging out with her, and I’m hoping we’re going to hear wedding bells very soon. I’ve told Pacey many times that he needs to propose. He claims he has plans but is waiting for the right moment. My guess is after the season, when the guys go to Banff, Canada, for some relaxation, Pacey will propose. He’s a sentimental guy like that.
