This used to be my therapy.
Music pounding. Liquor burning. Girls laughing too loud.
I order whiskey.
Then another.
Then a third.
The old Wild slides back into place like he never left.
A brunette leans against the bar next to me, hand brushing my arm.
“Weren’t you the one who closed the game last night?” she purrs.
I smirk automatically.
“Maybe.”
She laughs, twirling her hair.
“You celebrating?”
“Something like that.”
I let her stand close. Let her touch my chest when she talks. Let her flirt.
I know exactly what I’m doing.
And I hate myself for it.
But if I’m going to walk away from Amelia, then I need to make it real.
I need to make it ugly enough that she won’t fight for it.
The brunette presses closer.
“You don’t look like a man who wants to go home alone.”
I lean down, close enough for her to think I might kiss her.
“Maybe I don’t,” I murmur.
My stomach twists.
This isn’t me anymore.
But I don’t pull away.
The door to the bar opens.
I don’t look at first.
Then the air shifts.
I feel it before I see it.
I glance toward the entrance.
