Page 55 of Game Misconduct

I look wrecked.

The door swings open again, and I half expect it to be that guy again. But it’s someone else.

He cocks his head at me, then looks back at the men’s room sign on the door.

“Don’t worry, I was just leaving.” I squeeze past him and stumble back to the bar.

Someone—probably Ceci—has set the stool upright. She looks up as I approach, her eyes glassy.

“I called you a ride,” she says. “Figured you’d probably want to call it a night.”

“Yeah, thanks.” As I climb onto my seat, I rifle through my purse, finding hand sanitizer first, then a breath mint, and finally my lipstick and a compact. A few quick swipes of Ruby Woo later, I’m back to normal.

Well, mostly.

“You feeling okay?” Ceci’s hand lands on my lower back, rubbing comfortingly.

“Better now.”

The bartender—the cute hipster with the handlebar mustache—brings me a glass of water, and I chug it the way I chugged my rum and Coke earlier.

Like, four of them. They tasted good going down. Not so great coming back up.

Now, my stomach is still a little tender, my head is pounding, and I’m still fucking drunk. If only puking would instantly sober me up again.

The hair on the back of my neck tingles, and I glance over my shoulder to see a dark form cutting through the bar.

Nick.

What’s he doing here?

The hockey player is wearing slutty gray sweats and a navy puffer coat open over a solid-black waffle-knit Henley. A backward baseball cap rests on his head.

And his eyes are set on me.

My stomach twists, and this time it has nothing to do with the buckets of alcohol I’ve consumed.

He cuts through the tables until he stands in front of me.

“Let’s go,” he snaps.

I stare blankly at him. “Why would I go anywhere with you?”

“You texted me.” A muscle tics in his jaw. “You told me to pick you up.”

Elsy made sure I had his number while wedding planning, but we never communicated directly. If I didn’t need every single contact in my phone to have both a first and last name, I’d have labeled his entry Evil Spawn or My Worst Memory or Hottie McDouchebag.

Why the hell did I tell Ceci his name?

Turning my glare on my irksome friend, I’m not surprised to find her smirking, unrepentant.

“Oops,” she says, bringing her hand to her mouth and widening her eyes. “It was an accident.”

“It definitely wasn’t.” But I can’t help the laugh from bursting through my chest. “You’re lucky I love you, babe.”

“Right back at ya.”

I finish my glass of water, then sling my purse over my shoulder. “Well, let’s get this over with.”