New Year’s Eve inVegas, baby. This is the dream for professional athletes who don’t actually have much on the line in tomorrow’s game. I’m going to let my teammates make their own choices and not fucking worry about it.
“Another gin and tonic, please,” I say to the bartender, hunching my shoulders up around my ears.
I flip over to my sibling group chat, where everyone in my family is three hours ahead of me and already celebrating thenew year. I put some reaction hearts on their messages, then I drop my phone to the bar top with a clatter. Except I’m a little too vigorous and it tumbles to the floor. Kneeling, I pick it up as a compact blonde woman strides in, beelining for the bar.
She’s wearing a white satin dress that skims across the middle of her thighs, revealing strong legs and tapered calves. Her high heels have a cute ankle strap, and I think I catch a glimpse of a little tattoo behind the buckle.Pretty girl, I think as I slowly rise. She turns her back to me as she hops up onto a barstool.
Another tattoo decorates her back. This one is clearly a stethoscope.
Interesting.
My stool creaks as I sit down again, and she whirls her head around, blonde waves sliding over her shoulder.
Gold-flecked brown eyes go wide when she sees me just two seats away. “Where did you come from?”
I hold that glittering gaze, wanting to fall into it. Grateful that she’s not looking away, even if she’s startled.Hello, gorgeous.
I hold up my phone. “Dropped this. So I was on the floor.”
She exhales shakily. “Ah.”
“Sorry if I scared you.”
She lifts one shoulder as if to sayit’s fine, then gives the bartender her full attention. I go back to my phone, but I hear her order a glass of Prosecco.
“Happy New Year,” the bartender says as he sets it in front of her.
She snorts.
“Stupid Fucking New Year,” I mutter. That would be the G&T talking.
But she laughs unexpectedly, and agrees with me. “Exactly.”
And then she sighs. Pretty girl like her, all dressed up…she wanted her New Year’s Eve to go differently.
“It’s my birthday,” I add, unnecessarily. But I want to explain why I’m not a fan of this holiday.
She lifts her glass in my direction. “Happy birthday.”
“Not really.”
She smirks. “Stupid fucking birthday?”
“That’s more like it.” I swirl my drink around in my glass, then take a big swallow.
Out of the corner of my eye, I can see her tip her head to the side. Examining me.
Maybe I can make her night better. I shift sideways.
She slides her gaze down my body, taking in my tailored suit, my unbuttoned shirt collar.
“Are you an asshole?” she asks.
I can see why she might ask that, given the profanity. “I try not to be.”
There’s a beat of hesitation, then a flare of something like…fuck it.
And I do love a goodfuck it.
