Ah, home. I loved chaos. Hockey fans were chaotic as hell, and I almost smiled as a group of men stood up, arms in the air, yelling at the TV in the back. Sports fanatics were fun.
There were about forty people inside, nowhere near capacity, but my gaze moved through every face until I found hers. My chest got tighter as I watched her. Elle wore cutoff jean shorts with strings hanging down, a tight Bulls jersey, three necklaces, and high-top black and red Chucks. Her hair was in a ponytail, and were those Bulls earrings?
She was so out of place here it wasn’t even funny, but no one else seemed concerned. Charlie stood behind the bar, chatting with customers on stools. Alex, well, they were doing whatever they did. That moody asshole was fun to poke at, and they loved riling me up.
My usual spot was empty, so I sat down and watched her. Before Elle hated me, we’d talked for about twenty minutes that night months ago. She mentioned she wasn’t athletic in any way, that all the athleticism all went to her asshole brother, but how she moved between tables holding drinks seemed hard. She swayed her hips, not spilling a drop as she smiled at everyone.
But then her gaze landed on me, and that smile fell.
My stomach soured at the hatred on her face, and she looked away, a slight redness to the upper part of her cheeks. I had no idea what I’d done to get her to hate me. I was used to people thinking I was a dick, but that was different. The hockey team knew my value on the ice so they put up with it, and with Van Helsing’s help last year, things were getting better. I was even in two separate group chats. I responded a handful of times too. That was growth.
Women? I was a free ticket to the NHL. I could blink and say bedroom, and they’d jump on me. Elle though… I fucking hated how she dismissed me.
She took her sweet time returning to the bar, a tactic, I was sure, and when she did, she served everyone else besides me. She finally approached me, face flat, no sparkle in her eye. “What would you like?”
“Is your first night going okay?” I asked, gripping the edge of the bar and hoping she’d stay for a conversation. She didn’t seem flustered or put off by the interesting clientele. “Everyone treating you well?”
“Besides you? Yeah. I can manage this.” She waved her hand in the air in a circle, then pointed at me. “It’s you I can’t handle.”
It’s you.
Those words hurt more than I cared to admit, but I didn’t give anything away. Just like Michael and Van Helsing had said, calling me out and forcing me to accept I was a shit person, her insult stung and plucked at the part of me I thought I’d buried deep: the need to be wanted. I kept my face neutral despite my heart speeding up. Instead, I leaned onto my elbows to get closer to her. She smelled like vanilla and cinnamon and spice, and the combination was delicious. I breathed it in, jutting my chin toward the line of beers on draft. “312.”
“Tall or short?”
“Tall.”
She gave me a pinched smile before grabbing a glass and rinsing it with the spicket Charlie installed last year. Without looking at me, she tilted the glass and started pouring. A ticket that was at least ten inches long printed from the register, and without removing her hand from my drink, she tore it off and put it in her mouth.
There was something sexy about her handling shit. A quiet confidence. She set my glass down to settle, then retrieved seven more glasses with a finesse I only had on the ice. Two dark lagers, a Guinness, a black and tan, two pale ales, and a BudLight. She even picked up a tray, spun it in a circle, and had all the beverages on there just as Alex stormed behind the bar.
“I need those drinks! This table is a fucking menace.” They huffed, and Elle winked.
“Already done, Darkness.”
“Lux, I swear to gods, those better be for me.” Alex walked by in their all-black outfit, their usual uniform, and they grinned. Full-on smiled. Wow, seeing them smile was different than the usual expression. And,of course,Elle would get them to do that.
“Not bad,” Alex said.
“How aboutnice job?Would that kill your soul to say it?” she fired back, already tearing off the next ticket and grabbing glasses. Her arm muscles clenched and bulged as she hoisted a glass rack up onto the bar.
“Blondie, we need shots.”
“And I need a foot massage. Pipe down for one second, Mac Attack.” She put the dirty glasses in the empty rack, throwing a smile over her shoulder to one of Charlie’s gruffest patrons.
Macintosh Sawyer was a grumpy old man. But here he was, grinning at Elle like she hung the moon. I took a long drink of my beer, in a terrible mood. She could smile at that piece of shit but not me? Why? I wanted to know so damn badly.
Elle hadn’t looked at me once, but I couldn’t stop watching her. By the time Reiner sat next to me, she’d been called so many nicknames, I couldn’t keep track. Lux, Blondie, Ellie Bellie, Sunshine. It was the damn white-blonde hair. It stood out.
“Hey, Charlie hired himself someone with actual charisma.” Michael nudged my shoulder and lifted a hand in the air. Elle saw, and I swore her eyes flickered with heat.
Figures. Michael wasn’t an ogre.
“Hi, what can I get ya?” she asked, smiling at my coach. She had a dimple on one side, and I found that even more charming. Not two, but a little asymmetrical.
“Well, what would you suggest after someone spent all day looking at rings?”
She sucked her lip into her mouth, tapping her fingers on the bar top. Each nail was a different color, and I was annoyed I noticed. She still wouldn’t look at me.
