Page 86 of Over the Line

All of us rolled our eyes, and Barns smacked Temo’s arm. “Oh my God, dude. Really?”

The waiter chuckled. “I mean, I am a fan of Washington? Since, you know…” He gestured around the bar, which had a few Washington emblems and a framed jersey.

“Well, there goes your tip,” Craws deadpanned.

The waiter cocked a brow. “Keep it up, darlin’, and your next round will be water.”

That prompted a chorus of “oooh” from all of us.

“Wait, if you play for that team…” Temo slung his arm around my shoulders, nearly dumping my beer this time. Smacking my chest so hard I almost choked, he said, “We should hook you up with our man!”

I sputtered and elbowed him. “For fuck’s sake, Temo.” I looked up at the waiter. “No offense. I can’t do the opposing fan thing.”

“Oh, that’s fine.” The waiter wrinkled his nose. “I wouldn’t touch a Phantom.”

That had the whole table howling with laughter, including me. He chuckled and winked at me, and I returned it.

As the waiter went to get our refreshed drinks, Temo elbowed me. “You should get his number. Come on, man. You’ve been single for like thirty years.”

“Yeah, he’s right!” Morris chimed in. “Maybe if you get laid, you’ll be⁠—”

“Watch it,” I warned.

“What?” He put up his hands. “I’m just saying, man. If it worked for Vans”—he tipped his beer toward Lars Van Kassel, his defensive partner—“it could work for you too.”

“Fuck you!” Vans elbowed him hard enough to almost knock him out of his chair.

“Wait, what?” Chris asked through his laughter. “Was Vans a shit player before he met Abby?”

Immediately, everyone at the table was talking over each other, regaling Chris and the other young players about Vans’s pre-Abby play.

For his part, Vans just glared at Morris and muttered, “I hate you.”

I chuckled as I went for my drink.

Right then, Barns glanced toward the front of the bar, and his expression instantly darkened.

Somehow, I wasn’t surprised when I turned to see what had soured his mood.

Of course Jack Arlen was here. He really was like the stink of hockey gear—always present, nauseating as hell, and impossible to ignore. If I was given the choice between an interview with Jack and taking a deep whiff of every single one of my teammates’ jocks after a game… I wouldn’t even have to give that one any thought. Sniff, sniff.

He was apparently here for reasons that had nothing to do with us, though. He didn’t even look our direction, and instead he sidled up to a woman sitting at the bar. She smiled as they exchanged introductions.

A Tinder hookup, probably. That was about the only thing that would keep him away from us in a setting like this.

On a previous evening, a teammate had murmured, “Cheers to her for taking one for the team” as Jack left with his hookup.

There’d been a ripple of quiet but vaguely uncomfortable laughter among the guys. As far as we knew, Jack didn’t have any reputation for being a dick to women he hooked up with. He could be a subtle-enough-that-the-good-old-boys-couldn’t-see-it misogynist with his handful of female colleagues, but to my knowledge, he hadn’t done anything untoward with the women he slept with. We’d seen him walk through hotel lobbies with them the morning after, and they were always upbeat and handsy with him. We’d even seen him meet up with the same woman when we came through that city again.

So, I was cautiously optimistic that he was an insufferable asshole in general but not that flavor of scumbag. One could hope.

Predictably, Jack and his hookup left the bar about twenty minutes later, heading for the elevators.

Everyone at the table released their breath. We were all used to being around reporters, and there even came a point when cameras and microphones weren’t all that stressful.

Jack, though—he had everyone on edge every time.

“God, I hate that guy,” Craws muttered.