“So speaks the professor, the woman of logic,” he said bitterly, before walking out.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Jason
* * *
The Longhorn Bar in downtown Dallas was hopping, and remarkably friendly toward the Chicago interlopers who had put the beat down on the hometown team.
NoBo brought over a tray of shots. “Courtesy of our friends behind the bar.”
Lars Nyquist narrowed his gaze. I liked the gruff defenseman and newly minted Rebels captain. We were often paired on the same line, especially now that the powers that be were looking to create the magic of Theo and Lars. In romantic terms, Nyquist was partnered with my niece Addy, so that made him family.
“Are we sure they’re not poisoned?” Nyquist asked. “We did just shut them out in pretty embarrassing fashion.”
Boden had already knocked one back.
“Royal taster,” I said. “Let’s give it thirty seconds.”
Our tender frowned while I watched for signs of imminent retching. “Those guys are legit. They’re just hockey fans.”
“Fair enough.” Bell, aka Dingaling, knocked one back. Asher followed like a little lamb.
Hatch returned from calling his girl. “Shots? Nice.”
Normally we’d be back to Chicago right after the game, but we had a double header with the Steers, so after a day off, the home team would have a chance to get their revenge. The younglings were in the mood to celebrate.
You know who wasn’t? This guy. I was still annoyed about Franky giving me permission to date—or fuck—other women. Like I should just carry on as if my world had not been rocked by the events in that Detroit hotel room.
We made a baby and now I was supposed to run around sticking my dick into women not carrying my child? Make it make sense.
“Hey ho, hottie at six o’clock.” NoBo lifted a shot glass to his lips. “You know something? I think she’s got Isner in her sights.”
“I very much doubt that.” Skeptically, I glanced over my shoulder and locked eyes with a hot blonde in a pink, bejeweled cowboy hat. She lifted her hand in a flirty wave. When I turned back to the guys, they were all grinning.
“Definitely likes ’em older.” Gaultier giggled. He got like that after two beers and a bourbon.
“Who you callin’ old?”
“Aw, you worried ’cause you found a gray pube down there?” Boden grinned and knocked back another shot. I hoped it was contaminated.
Hatch nudged me. “Maybe you should talk to her. Let off some steam.”
I had been acting like a cranky asshole. This morning, I’d snapped at Hatchling because he was taking too long in the hotel room bathroom, and I’d spent two minutes in the sin bin for hooking during tonight’s game, which broke my thirty-six-game streak of penalty-free play. We still won, but I couldn’t believe I’d let my emotions rule and affect my game.
“Sorry I was a dick earlier,” I murmured.
He waved it off. “I’m serious. It might make you feel better.”
Doubtful. I wasn’t in the mood for shots or puck bunnies, so I headed up to the bar for a beer. While I waited—these bartenders weren’t such big Rebels fans after all—I felt a nudge at my elbow. Turning, I got the surprise of my life.
“Nazarov!”
“Isner,” my old pal said seriously, before a smile touched his lips and I was wrapped in a huge hug.
Russian-born Alexei Nazarov had played NCAA with me at the University of Michigan before we were drafted and went our separate ways, me to LA, him to Miami. We had run into each other semi-regularly over the years, but it had been a while owing to him being on IR with Seattle for the best part of last season.
“What the hell are you doing in Dallas?”
