Page 3 of Big Stick Energy
“Hey, Darcy,” he says. “Want a soda? Or a smoothie?”
“No, thank you,” I say, avoiding his pretty gray eyes. “I’m on the clock.”
I waltz right past him and approach the bar. “Excuse me,” I say to the two young bartenders, who are standing together, whispering. They’re almost certainly gossiping about the professional athletes in their midst.
One of them finally bothers to approach. “What can I get you?”
“What do you have in a 2015 Bordeaux?”
He reaches for the wine list. “Prolly something in here…”
I grab it out of his hands and flip to the back. “Here we go. Chateau d’Issan. I’ll take the bottle, uncorked.”
He frowns. “They do bottles upstairs in the restaurant. Down here at the bar, we only sell it by the glass. That’s our policy.”
I’m trapped in a doom loop of stupidity. “Okay. Fine. I’d like five glasses, please.” I push my boss’s credit card across the bar.
“’Kay,” he says. “Gimme a minute to get the bottle from the cellar.”
He hustles off, and I prop my face in my hands and close my eyes. I’m still so sleepy. The Legends played deep into overtime last night to tie up the series. Then we woke up early in the morning and flew here, heading straight to the arena for a practice after the flight.
I indulge in a fantasy of sleeping in late tomorrow. Even though it will never happen.
“Problem?” asks a low, sexy voice.
I yank my head up and find Eric Tremaine standing in front of me. “All good,” I say quickly. “Just buying some wine for the boss. You know how he is.”
“Yeah, I do.” Tremaine smiles, and my stomach does a little flip.
Gah.
The bartender reappears and makes a show of opening the bottle. It would cost ninety dollars at a store. God only knows what the hotel is going to charge us.
Not my problem, though. The bartender pours out the bottle into five goblets and lines them up on the bar. “You got four friends?”
“They’ll be along later,” I say. “Can I see the bottle? That’s a nice label.”
“Sure.” He hands it over.
Eric frowns at me as I set the bottle on the bar and grab a laminated appetizer menu off the bar. “What are you doing?”
“This will make a good funnel. Hold the bottle steady, would you?” I curl the menu into a cone shape and poke the end into the bottle.
He grabs the bottle and secures it, no questions asked. That’s just how he rolls—one minute he’s wiping up the rink with hisopponent. The next minute, he’ll turn around and help the cleaning staff collect empty cups after a meeting because “everyone’s job matters to the team.”
Like, sir? That’s not allowed. You can’t be both the most intimidating person on the ice AND the kind of guy who remembers the security guard’s grandson just started kindergarten. Pick a lane.
He leans in, steadying the bottle, and I can smell his shower soap as I pick up one of the goblets and decant it carefully through my makeshift funnel back into the bottle.
“Interesting way to enjoy a glass of wine,” he says with a chuckle.
“Hush. Mr. Sharp wants what he wants, and sometimes I have to get creative. Just hold still for another minute, would you?”
“Hey, miss?” the bartender says, suddenly paying attention to me. “You can’t take that to go!”
“Sure I can,” I insist, grabbing the second goblet. “You sold it to me in glasses, like a good employee. What I do with it is my business. Now, where’s my check?”
He blinks at me a second before walking away to charge my boss’s card.
