Page 2

Is that his 90s costume? Because he looks like shit.

How did Britney end up with a guy like him?

I gesture to the bartender and order shots for me and my brother. He disappeared off to the restroom or somewhere. Knowing Archer, he’s playing tonsil hockey with the next girl who flirts with him. Wouldn’t be the first time the puck bunnies found us at a bar.

After all, this is Blue Line.

We play professional hockey. Archer is recognizable by most around town. Doesn’t hurt that he likes wearing his jersey out in public, just to make sure he’s noticed.

Me? I prefer a girl to like me for me, not because of my hockey stick.

The bartender brings me four shots, and there’s still no sign of Archer. He sure as hell knows how to get lost. Usually, it’s at the most inopportune time.

The douche sitting next to Britney gets up, whispers something in her ear which forces a fake smile out of her. He strides down the hall, presumably toward the bathroom. I hope he takes a long ass while. Maybe he’ll get locked in the stall.

“Nice outfit,” I say, glancing at her, trying my one chance for her to notice me. I don’t want to seem too forward and throw a ridiculous line at her that will have her cringing, especially if she’s taken.

“I can’t tell if you’re complimenting me or insulting me for wearing the same thing as a half-dozen other girls in here.” She appears slightly miffed.

“You wear it best,” I say, making my point absolutely clear.

Her cheeks redden, and it’s that flush that I imagine wandering down all of her body. She smiles weakly, but it looks far more genuine than the forced grin with the boyfriend. “Thanks. You look,” she glances me up and down, “like you didn’t realize it was 90s night.”

“I didn’t get the page,” I say, and that gets a genuine laugh, until I realize it’s not so genuine and she’s got a knack for pretending.

Turns out the girl is great at faking things. Laughter. Smiles. Shit. My mind should not be going to other things, but it is.

Does she fake it with him?

Her eyes twinkle as they tighten. She tilts her head, staring at me. “You’re cute, but that was … a bad 90s joke.”

I hold a hand to my heart. “Ouch. I guess I’ll have to take comedian off my resume.”

She smiles and rolls her eyes. “I’m sure you’ll recover.”

Time is running out on the clock, and I need to take my shot with the puck. “You think I’m cute?”

“Yes, but I’m with someone.” She points at the guy coming back from the bathroom. She leans closer, just enough that I can smell her perfume, and it’s intoxicating, like violets and vanilla. “Don’t judge me too harshly for looking like every other Britney in here, it’s not like I knew what to expect. First time coming in here with my date and all…”

I open my mouth to ask her about her date, and he grabs the seat next to her. Getting a better look at him, he’s dressed as a 90s rapper, which explains him wearing a black baseball hat sideways, gold chains, an old T-shirt, and black jeans.

“Is this guy bothering you?” Douche asks her.

I don’t catch his name, and I don’t want to either. He’s a nobody to me, just another guy at the bar hitting on a pretty lady.

“No, he’s fine. He was just asking me why everyone was dressed up.” She covers for me a little too smoothly.

“Oh.” He turns toward me to answer, as if whatever response she gave wasn’t enough. “It’s 90s night. Once a month the bar puts together themed nights when patrons get dressed up from the decade. I’m a rapper; my date here is Britney Spears.” He grabs her ass, his hand going under her plaid skirt, and it takes everything in my power not to throw him down against the top of the bar and smash his face into the wood.

“Cool. Cool.” I reach for the shots that I ordered and down one, deciding now is a great time to get hammered. Getting mansplained about bar theme nights is not what I had in mind for tonight, while he’s feeling up the girl I’m crushing.

After the second shot, my mind pauses for a second.

He referred to her as his date not his girlfriend.

Not that it matters. She turns, her back to me and he grabs her by the waist, pulling her onto his lap.

He grumbles, complaining that she’s too heavy and could stand to lose a few pounds, I bite my tongue. That woman is a fucking goddess. She’s got the perfect amount of curves; she could sit on my face, cut off my air supply, and I’d die a happy man.