Brayden smirked a little. “Yeah, but that wasn’t my teammate, My. Coach is fuckin’ pissed as all hell.”
I patted him on the shoulder as his body swayed a bit. “I’m sure it wasn’t as bad as you think. It will all blow over by the next practice.”
Brayden leaned back on my bed, propping himself up by one elbow, and started laughing. “Yeah, I hope so. He is the coach’s son though, so he might hold a grudge on this one.”
“Holy shit, Bray. You’re fighting with Gavin Hayes? He’s the freaking best defender you have and you’re pissing him off?” I hated getting into my brother’s team business but hockey was in both of our blood and I couldn’t always hold my tongue on how stupid he could be most of the time.
“I went to visit him today. It was bad. That bastard sperm donor of ours.” My brother’s words hit my heart with a sledgehammer.
“What the hell, Brayden? You promised! If we were going to tell him, we’d do it together.” I took a few slow breaths to cool my building temper.
“Yeah, I know, but I didn’t want you to have to see him like that. He’s not the same person. He’s not our dad anymore.”
I started to pace around my room, trying to level myself out. I knew my brother was trying to do the right thing and protect me, but protecting me from my own father—that was a little more than I could handle. “We’ll talk about this in the morning.” I seethed as I heard a horn blare from outside my window. “I won’t be home until late. Sleep off that whiskey, Bray. You smell like you brought the bar home with you.”
Grabbing my purse and shoving my lip gloss in, I leaned over and kissed my big brother on the cheek. He whispered, “Love ya,” then fell back on my bed and immediately started snoring.
Fucking perfect.
* * *
“Myla, oh thank God! You came and you look fabulous!” Practically singing, Simon grabbed my hand and twirled me around a few times before he took me into his arms. “Come, I have tons of people to introduce you to.”
The club was bustling with wall-to-wall people dancing, laughing, and drinking. Everyone kept grabbing Simon to try to get him to dance, chat, or do shots with them. It was my first time in an actual night club, and the bright flashing lights, the loud pounding bass, and the exorbitant number of people grinding on each other was all a lot to take in while being whisked around by my arm and shaking hands with everyone we passed.
“Adam!” Simon screamed over to a tall ginger that was getting a cocktail from the bar. His light gray button-down clung to his arms, shoulders, and chest, his face was lightly dusted with freckles, his long, dark red hair was pulled back into a bun, and he had a thick well-kept beard surrounding a gorgeous, toothy grin. I stopped dead. This guy was one of the most handsome men I had ever seen. I mean come on, a mun?Yes, please.
“Simon, how are you?” They shook hands before Simon led the tall drink of water over to me.
“This is one of my dearest friends, Myla. Adam was one of my students when he was in high school.”
Adam turned a thousand shades of red as he took my hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“So, you’re a figure skater?” We took seats at the bar. I looked around for Simon but he had gotten lost in the crowd of guests.
Adam shook his head. “I tried it out when I broke my wrist pretty badly playing varsity hockey. How do you know Simon?”
“I’m one of his assistant coaches.”
He waved over to the bartender. “What’re you drinking, Myla?”
I blushed a little. “Just water, thanks.”
The bartender handed me a plastic cup with a lemon on the rim.
“Not drinking tonight?” He smiled, drinking from his martini glass. He looked so sophisticated and I felt like a little girl—cue nervousness and extreme awkwardness.
I giggled a little, trying to mask my nerves. “I don’t really drink.”
“Ah. You’re one ofthosetypes of athletes.” I strained to ignore the condescending undertone of the statement, but it got the better of me.
“What do you mean one ofthose?” I was trying to play coy; I had never flirted with an older guy before. With all the skating practice I did during high school, there was no room for flirting, or dating at all. The longest relationship I’d ever had had only consisted of about two months of barely communicating through texts, two dinner-and-a-movie dates, and one failure of a sexual encounter—super lame.
“It’s a good thing you’re that disciplined to not drink. You’re probably in great shape.” His eyes traveled down my bare legs and back up to my cleavage. In seconds, I felt completely exposed.
“I guess you could say that. I’ve actually never had a drink in my life.”
Adam nearly choked. Coughing and grabbing his chest, he exclaimed, “What?”
