“Not tonight, man,” Fox adds, last and loudest. I lost my wingman the minute he fell for Logan’s sister.
So I head to cool down. The guys call my post-game routine “psychopath behavior,” and they’re probably right. I don’tneedto spend an hour flushing out my legs on the bike while rewatching the game and jotting notes?—
Which reminds me of another note-taker.
Stop.
Old habits die hard; it’s not like I have anyone to rush home to.
Except maybe the memory of lips that curve into a sly smile and speak with a subtle southern drawl.
Fuck.
Where do I know her from?
It’s driving me insane. That’s the only explanation for why I can’t stop thinking about her. That, and the annoying pit in my gut that says I should’ve asked for her number.
But what would I have done with it?
I’m not the guy who asks for women’s numbers anymore. Hell, I’m not even the guy whocallswhen someone gives me theirs.
I’m definitely not the guy who gets hung up on someone I talked to for, what, two minutes.
Since my ex, and my subsequent attempts—and failures—at finding that kind of connection with someone new, I’ve kept things casual. And I’ve been mostly content with it. Happy, even.
Yet, I keep thinking about the girl at Citgo.
The rookie’s the only one still lingering when I get back from the showers.
“Change your mind about grabbing a drink?” I pull on a pair of boxer briefs under my towel.
“Nope. Already got plans.”
“Date?” I button my shirt.
Last season, we’d all be commiserating the loss with a pint in hand. Now my friends are running home to their girls. I can’t even count on the rookie for a drinking buddy, though I think he’s a long way from settling down.
“Yup.” Helm tucks his phone into his pocket. “You should get on the apps, King.”
“I’m good,” I say, though the truth is I’ve probably exhausted all options on them.
I wasn’t always this jaded about dating, but at some point, I accepted that I’d missed my chance at finding something lasting. Or lost the desire to do so.
“Quit frowning.”
I am not frowning.
“It’s just Doom December, Cap,” he continues, shouldering his bag. “Don’t stress it.”
“Excuse me, what?”
“The annual collapse. Happens every year—we collectively forget how to play hockey for like thirty days. Check the stats if you don’t believe me.” He heads toward the door. “Later, Cap.”
I raise my hand in goodbye and finish dressing. If no one else is going to drown out the sting of that loss, I guess it’s up to me.
Sully’s is busier than usual for a Thursday, the music humming under the conversations. The place is still the same dim hole-in-the-wall it’s always been—wood-paneled walls, lighting with a faint green tint that makes everyone look a little sickly. It’s part of the charm.
I take an open stool near the end of the bar. Cassie spots me right away, holds out a fist, and I bump it.
