12
Connor
Pour Decisions bar always felt like stepping into a time warp, with its scuffed wooden floors, low amber lighting, and surfboards mounted above the booths. The speakers sang with a lazy Fleetwood Mac track while a jukebox flickered lazily in the corner, too stubborn to die, too temperamental to be reliable. Vinyl covers papered the walls like a love letter to another decade, Springsteen, The Clash, Blondie, each one water-stained and curling at the edges.
I loved it here.
A couple of women at the bar clocked me as I walked in, one nudging her friend with a look that wasn’t subtle. I offered a polite smile, nothing more. Hooking up wasn’t on my agenda, and I’d learned enough from Jake’s mistakes not to hook up near our watering hole spot.
Our table—center booth, back left—was unofficially reserved. It always smelled faintly of spilled rum and old leather, and tonight, the boys were already mid-story when I slid into the seatbeside Jake, who wheezed into his pint at something Nate said. “You dumped the bird girl?”
“Technically, the parrot did the dumping. It told me to get lost,” Nate grumbled.
“Sounds like the most intelligent one in the relationship.”
“I’m telling you, we need to start a podcast. ‘The Try Line: Tales of Tragedy and Testosterone.’”
I shook my head. “You’d have one episode before you were all canceled.”
“Well, now that you’re here, Cap,” Ramirez said, raising his beer. “An official cheers for saving our asses and increasing our air miles this season. Let’s fucking make it worth it and bring that championship home.”
I clinked my glass to his and nodded. “Damn right. We didn’t crawl through six feet of swamp just to phone it in.”
Jake leaned forward. “I want that trophy so bad, I’m dreaming about it. Like, genuinely. Had a nightmare last week where Bobby was lifting it, wearing nothing but compression shorts and a tiara.”
Nate nearly choked on his drink. “Wait, why a tiara?”
“No clue. Ask my therapist.”
Laughter broke out around the table, easy and loud, the kind of stupid banter that made nights like this feel worth it, even when everything else was chaos. Even when the pitch was trashed and our season was stacked against us, this team always came out fighting. Last year wasn’t our year, but this year, we were going far.
I signaled to the bartender, Leo, for a beer, and within minutes, I had a cold one between my fingers.
“Oh, lads, incoming,” Jake muttered, looking over to the door.
Nate twisted in his seat, then let out a low whistle. “Shit. Didn’t think she knew how to let her hair down.”
I didn’t need to look. I already knew who it was. But of course, I looked anyway.
Teddy Sloane stood just inside the bar, lit by the soft gold of the overhead string lights, and true to Nate’s comment, looked like she’d rather be anywhere else. Her dark hair was pulled back, makeup clean and simple, and she’d swapped her usual Valkyries hoodie for dark jeans and a black sleeveless top that showed off the defined muscle in her arms. She didn’t smile or pause to soak in the attention that rippled through the room as people noticed her, but plenty of people took note.
Her assistant coach, Micah, was beside her, smiling and holding hands with our outside center, Bobby.
“Fuck,” I said out loud, when that meant to remain in my head.
Jake swung his gaze to me. “Okay over there, Cap?”
I swallowed hard. “Nothing.”
“You’ve been staring since she walked in.”
I didn’t answer. Mostly because Ihadbeen staring, and because I wasn’t in the mood for the smug grin that was already forming on his face.
“Relax,” he added, nudging my shoulder with his. “You’re allowed to look. It’s not like she’s gonna bite.”
“She might,” Nate said, eyes still trained on her. “Has she forgiven us for the gym mix-up, yet?”
“I don’t wanna bring it up, but I did some damage control at the shoot the other day to cover your sorry asses.”
