Page 47 of Game Misconduct

nineteen

. . .

Bex

No, I didn’t fucking ask if this hotel bar had cheese fries. I haven’t eaten them in three years. Not since… My face settles into a scowl, the default expression when he’s around.

The bartender places a foamy beer in front of him, and he murmurs a thanks in appreciation.

“You come here often?”

My head whips to the right. Is he talking to me? Sure enough, his eyes are trained on me, his expression open and earnest.

“It’s no Michigan bar, but it does have charm,” he continues.

Michigan bar? Is he talking about the bar where we met?

“We always stay here.” Since we’re in the same division, we play Atlanta four times a year—two home, two away—and the team always stays at the same hotel. He knows this. It’s probably the same hotel his old teams used.

Nick chuckles, the timbre rich and hearty. It does something to me, deep inside, and I do not appreciate it.

“I’m just passing through.”

“Good for you,” I mutter, going back to my book. My friend Sadie wrote it, and if dealing with hockey players in real life wasn’t torturous enough, I willingly choose to spend my free time reading romance novels about it, too. Although her books are male/male hockey stories, so they’re not the same as what I deal with every day.

Sadie’s partner Jared Aviyente is the on-ice reporter for the Grizzlies, and she’s used Vanessa, Audrey, Robby, and me for research over the years, so it’s relatively true to life. Except where she needs artistic license to make the story work. As much as I want to yell at the page when something isn’t one hundred percent factual, I recognize that sometimes it needs to happen for the plot.

Although I do like the kissing bits. And the spicy bits.

If only men in real life were open to honest communication and toppling the patriarchy. Until then, I’ll have to escape into a fictionalized reality where love always wins, everyone ends up happy, and the orgasms are satisfying.

Unlike the real world.

“Whatcha reading?” Nick asks, his smarmy voice cutting through my concentration.

I ignore him, refusing to rise to the bait. He’s only going to ridicule me. Whereas I know when Wyatt or Robby do it, they mean it good-naturedly, with him, it won’t be all fun and games. And I’m not in the mood to be mocked.

The bartender sets a platter of cheese fries in front of him, and I watch out of the corner of my eye as he pushes the plate between us.

“Hungry?”

Yes.

“No.”

Vanessa and I were supposed to grab dinner while Sven goes out with MacGregor and Logan, but the other two left nearly half an hour ago, and neither my bestie nor her husband have made it downstairs. Probably sneaking in a quickie. Hell, if my hot-as-hell husband was on the road with me, and we didn’t have a game until tomorrow, I’d be getting my freak on, too.

Not that I have a husband. Or want one.

Except, I admit to myself as I finally pluck at a cheese-covered crinkle-cut fry, I really, really do.

Not so much for the road trips, although traveling together would be nice. More, I want someone to come home to. Someone to share my bed, to hold me through the night. Someone who will ask about my day and care about the answer. Someone who will be there for me through the good times and bad, who will offer a shoulder for me to lean on, and let me do the same in return.

I’m not upset that my friends have all found their forever love. But I can’t deny I’m bitter that I haven’t. Even though I’m not putting any effort into it, even though I don’t date and never give anyone a chance, I still want it so desperately my soul physically aches.

Happily ever after doesn’t happen for girls like me. That’s what my mother has taught me over and over and over again. Sure, she’s never come out and said it. She doesn’t have to. The words she does say are poisonous enough. Maybe if you lose weight. Maybe if you dye your hair. Maybe if you⁠—

I shake my head, as if that will clear the thoughts away. I know it won’t.