But hold on a second. My mind wanders back to what I just said. Uhh . . . did I just tell Hornsby—to his face—that he was diseased? Infectious. Not worthy of milkshake sharing? What on earth was I thinking? I’m pretty sure most of America would want to share a milkshake with him. I mean, I would share one. But here I am, acting like a toddler parroting their parents by repeating what Pacey has said to me.
“I’m not diseased.” Eli’s face scrunches up. “Your brother likes to make up lies so he has a chance to live up to my beauty,” Eli says, making direct eye contact with me and batting his eyelashes foolishly. “But for the record, I don’t have any diseases. I just want to clarify that.”
I hold up my hands. “Hey, what you do on your own time is your business.” But I know a lot of what he does on his own time involves women.
Many long nights.
And always short goodbyes.
The bartender sets my drinks down and then glances back and forth between Eli and me. She smirks and says, “Shall I put your drinks on the hockey star’s tab?”
Normally, I’d say no because I don’t like to blur the lines with work and my free time, but for some reason, and out of an attempt to match his teasing, I smile at Eli. “Yes, I’d love that.” Then I smirk at the bartender. “Thank you.”
She winks. “Of course.”
Well, now that I have boldly put my drinks on someone else’s tab, it’s time I take off before I sweat through this dress. I start to walk away when Eli steps in front of me, blocking my retreat.
“Uh, if I’m paying for your drink, the least you can do is talk to me a little longer. Don’t you think?”
Uh . . . talk with him longer. That would actually be the last thing I’d want to do. Why, you ask?
Because he intimidates me. Because coming out tonight was supposed to be fun, and even though Hornsby is a great guy, I just don’t feel super comfortable around him. This is going to sound really bad, I realize that, but he’s just too . . . pretty. I’m not in his league—not that he would ever be interested in me—but I like to keep my interactions with him to a minimum, especially since he’s a giant flirt. I don’t need my little romantic brain thinking that this overtly attractive alpha male is the least bit interested in seeing me naked. Nope, it’s better to let ourselves down easy and not even jump into that realm of thinking.
Therefore, we need to find his friends and scoot him over to their company, not mine. “Did you come here alone?”
“Posey came with me, but he took off within five minutes, claiming he had an upset stomach. Frankly, I think the whole singles bar thing really freaked him out.”
Now Posey is someone I could hang out with. Yes, he’s handsome, but he’s also slightly more down to earth. A sparkling glint doesn’t bounce off his teeth every time he smiles like it does with Hornsby.
“Aw, why? He’s so loveable. There’s potential for him to find a really nice girl.”
Hornsby’s brow creases. “He finds enough girls. That’s the problem. He doesn’t like all the attention.”
I give him a look of disbelief. “This coming from the biggest player on the team.”
His eyebrows shoot upward, nearly kissing his thick hairline. “You think I’m the biggest player?” He points at his chest, feigning shock. Is he kidding? I don’t think he’s the biggest player. I know he is. Everyone knows it. The team, the management, the fans. It’s no secret that Hornsby gets around. I asked Pacey once if Hornsby ever felt bad about going from girl to girl, and Pacey said no because he’s always upfront and honest with them. They know what they’re getting themselves into with him—one night and that’s it.
Call me crazy, but that kind of attitude—one night and that’s it—smells distinctively of universal player status.
And I’m ready to tell him that, to stamp him with my label, when his beautiful eyes short-circuit my brain, turning it into a pile of useless, wrinkly mush.
“Uh, ahem . . . I’d like to say . . . well, ooo, is it hot in here?” He shakes his head, smiling. “Yeah, didn’t think so, but as I was saying, I well, I heard, you know how everyone talks, that you are, uh, that you . . . well, that you are easily the biggest player on the team.” The drinks in my hands feel like they’re about to slip out of my grasp and crash to the floor as my palms sweat like they’re trudging through the depths of the Amazon.
“Says who?”
Isn’t it obvious?
“Everyone.” I grimace.
He brings his drink to his lips, studying me the entire time, his uncaring disposition rolling off him carelessly. To have that much confidence, I couldn’t even imagine. “You shouldn’t listen to other people’s opinions.”
“Are you saying it’s not true?” I roll my teeth over the corner of my lip, and his eyes immediately fixate on the movement.
When his gaze connects with mine again, he says, “I’m saying it’s not currently true.”
Okay . . . good to know.
I honestly don’t know what to do with that or where to go from here. I just want to have a drink with my friend. So, to let him off the hook, I say, “I don’t know what you’re trying to prove, but you don’t need to prove anything with me. I’m not allowed to put players’ personal lives, as in hockey players, not the philandering kind of player that you have been described as tonight, on TikTok unless approved, so your extracurricular activities are safe with me.”
