by Amanda Cowen
When no one is paying attention, I splash some whiskey into my glass. One sip, that’s all it takes to steady my tremoring hands.
The tiny brunette on my lap keeps running her hand up and down my chest, suggestively. She smiles at me with her cat-like blue eyes focused on my crotch. She wants to fuck me. It’s obvious. She’s pretty, no doubt. Problem is, I don’t want to fuck her. And even if I did, I haven’t been able to get my dick hard enough to want to fuck someone, not even this cleavage showing vixen straddling my lap.
“Anything I can get you?” she coos in my ear.
How about a fucking time machine? Can you manage that?
“No.”
I take a sip from my drink, watching another seductive smile touch her wet pink lips.
“Whiskey? Rum? Scotch...?” She pauses for a moment and bites down on her bottom lip. “Sex?”
I choke on my drink and brush her off my lap. She flops down onto the empty cushion beside me with a frown. Before I would have tossed a girl like her into the back of a limo and gotten my rocks off. Now, I just want her off of me.
“I'm going to pass on the offer.” I clear my throat and look to where Jason is doling out more shots. “Although I’m sure one of my teammates would be happy to accept.”
She blinks and then blinks again. “So you’re not going to leave here with me?”
“No.”
And with that truth, I tip my drink to her, ignoring this girl’s pout about me not leaving with her, and down the whiskey-laced Coke. It’s strong, numbing, and exactly what I need to clear my head. I stand up and walk over to Alex.
“Hey! Brooks!” Jason yells over the music.
I start to reply with some similar greeting, but just behind Jason, set into the shadows of the next VIP booth, stands Theo, the Bruiser’s Marketing Manager. Also known as the biggest power tripper and dick shit I’ve ever had to work with. When Quinn was an intern for the Bruiser’s it was obvious he was attracted to her, and even though it drove me insane that he couldn’t keep his eyes off of her, I also couldn’t blame him. Who wouldn’t want, Quinn? She’s smart and beautiful. She’s the whole package.
Our eyes meet and neither of us looks away. He’s sipping a drink with one of my Tornadoes teammates, but I can tell how unsurprised he is to see me here. He would love nothing more than to see my career go down in flames. And seeing him here isn’t good.
Keep it together, Cash.
“Cash Brooks,” Theo says once we are standing face to face. He takes a slow sip of his drink and glances over my shoulder at the throng of girls and booze in our section. “Look at you, right back to where you started.”
I clear my throat, feeling that familiar distaste for Theo spread along my skin from my chest out to my fingertips. “What do you want Theo?”
“Can’t an old colleague greet another at a club without an ulterior motive?” Theo takes a swig of his drink.
“Not when that old colleague is you greeting me.”
He nods, lifting his drink and taking another sip, studying me. “Did you enjoy the holidays, Brooks?”
“Holidays are for people who have a family. I didn’t enjoy shit except an empty home and Chinese takeout.”
“Oh, come on, you're Cash Brooks.” Theo nods over to the women behind me pawing my teammates in the VIP section. “You just play more, fuck more, and drink more to make everything A-Okay.”
“Screw off, Theo.” I scowl at him, then turn away. I don’t need his patronizing shit right now. I have enough regrets, and punching Theo out at a club doesn’t need to be added to my never-ending list.
“Aren’t you going to ask how my holiday went?”
I freeze, steps away from him, waiting. The way his shit-eating-smirk carries through his voice makes me struggle to keep on walking, and I suddenly become a little overwhelmed with the enormity of the question.
He knows something about Quinn.
“I spent Christmas evening at Hilton Ashby’s place,” he gloats.
Slowly, I turn around to face him and hesitate a beat before offering. “No surprise there. You’re an epic ass-kisser.” My voice remains steady as I swallow down the taste of bile. He doesn’t have to say it for me to know he saw Quinn. I’ve never felt such a tormenting mix of protectiveness, resentment, and a blinding need to drink a bottle of whiskey to numb the pain.
“Quinn was there,” he confirms and takes a long sip of his fucking drink.
Fuck. Everything.
My fists clench as I try to shake away a memory of Quinn in late-morning sun, all sleep-warm and cheek pressed into the pillow in my bed. The image of her wavy hair a tangled mess around her head as I watched her sleep. I feel ill at the memory and the reminder that she was mine.
I clear my throat and keep my face emotionless. “Great. I hope she’s doing well.”
“She’s doing more than well.” Theo stirs his straw in his drink. His expression remains unreadable, and I can’t tell if he’s gloating or maybe even speaking neutrally. “Accepting her offer of admission to Harvard was the best decision she ever made. She looks great. She’s killing it with her studies. And she’s found herself a boyfriend. Nice guy named Aiden.”
I struggle to swallow the lump of rage in my throat. Did he just say Aiden? That slimy little fucker she was friends with? I feel light-headed with emotions…confusion and fury and so much of everything…but I don’t let Theo see how this news is affecting me.
“I met him at Hilton’s for Christmas dinner,” he continues and watches me with a sneer. “I figure if she invited him they must be pretty serious.”
I don’t respond, don’t know what to say. I want to break Theo’s mouth for even suggesting Quinn is serious with someone else. The thought of Quinn touching, kissing or, even worse, fucking someone else makes me see red. My heart is pounding so hard it seems to blur my vision with every heavy pulse. I clench my fists resisting the urge to grab Theo by the collar of his shirt and throw him over the railing onto the dancefloor.
“Hey, Cash,” a busty blonde coos from my right. “Who’s your friend?”
“He’s not my friend,” I growl.
“Enjoy your evening, Brooks.” Theo raises his glass. “And good luck this season. Everyone’s saying you’re going to make a huge comeback, but I can see you’re already on your way to fucking it up again.”
I turn away from him, jaw clenched. The only thing on my mind right now is the thought of Quinn with Aiden—more pointedly, Quinn fucking Aiden, to be exact. It makes me sick to my stomach and green with envy. My knees feel like they might buckle at any second and my heart is pounding so hard I think it may explode. I’ve never felt anything like it.
Knocking back the remainder of my drink, I am about to push past this blue eyed babe and throw in the towel from this clusterfuck of a night, when I realize inviting her to join me in the back of a limo would be better than sitting in the VIP section bitter and sulky.
“Want to get out of here?” I ask the blonde without an ounce of hesitation.
I watch her eyes grow increasingly excited as I wait for her to attempt an answer. My eyes caress her shapely thighs and rounded hips. With legs as long as hers in a pair of sky-high heels and a dress so tight and short it barely covers her crotch, she’s about as good to go as any other puck bunny in our section.
“With you?” she coos.
The way her big blue eyes gawk at my crotch tells me she ain’t about to turn me down. I bend my head, take a deep breath and whisper in her ear, “Yeah, with me.”
“Yes,” she pants out, almost orgasming on the spot. “Let’s get out of here.”
I pull my phone from my pocket and dial my limo driver’s number. If I can’t drink Quinn away, I will just have to fuck the memory of her out of my head for good. And this long-legged, sparkly-dress-wearing blondie will hopefully do the trick. Clearly I am incapable of love.
I hate myself for what I’m about to do, but it’s the only way I know how to cope.
I gi
ve her my most charming smile. “Come on, sweetheart. My limo driver is already on his way.”
Chapter 9
Quinn
It’s been six months, exactly one hundred and eighty-two days, since the last time I saw him. Four thousand three hundred and eight hours since he broke my heart. And attending a Tornadoes game with Aiden was not the way I thought I would see Cash again or how I thought I would start my Spring Break.
I tried to get out of it, I did, but Aiden was so persistent that I come to the Tornadoes game with him. He said he didn’t feel right accepting Tornadoes tickets from my father and taking someone else to the game. Even though I practically begged him to find any other person in the world to go with him except me, he wouldn’t take no for an answer.
And now here I am, feeling unsteady on my feet, struggling to figure out how to appear together and look like I’m totally okay and cool with being here. My heart is beating so hard I’m sure Aiden can hear it.
Coming to a Tornadoes game was a bad idea.
When I step through the automatic doors and into the arena, all the familiar sensations and memories hum against my skin. Aiden is leading the way and holding my hand. He probably thinks his hand in mine is a sweet and couple-like gesture between us. What he doesn’t know is that I’ve purposely entwined my hand with his is, because if he wasn’t holding onto to me, I know I would make a run for it.
The ticket agent scans our tickets and the smell of beer and fried food perfumes the air as we shuffle through the crowd into the concession area.
Chills shoot up my spine, and this time it isn’t from the cold. It’s from the life-size cutout of Cash in his hockey equipment beside a kiosk filled with Tornadoes merchandise. Even seeing a fake cardboard cutout of him makes me uneasy. I immediately recall the way his arms felt wrapped around me, safe and kind, the way his breath warmed my neck. I remember the feel of his hungry mouth sucking at my neck, my shoulders, and my mouth.
“Should I get one of these?” Aiden’s voice snaps me out of my thoughts and knocks me back to reality. He grabs a goofy hat off of the kiosk stand and puts it on his head. It has the Tornadoes logo on the front, but on top it has fake gray wiry hair. It must be the world’s ugliest hat-wig combo. “I’ve always wanted one.”
“Get whatever you want,” I say watching Aiden take it off his head and check out the price tag. “But if you decide to wear that thing in the arena, I’ll pretend I’m not with you,” I tease.
He laughs, already pulling out his wallet to pay the cashier. “I’m sorry, Quinn. I can’t pass up this hat. It’s on sale.” He slaps down forty dollars and meets my eyes. “Why don’t I buy you one too so we can match?”
“No thanks,” I say, laughing.
Aiden slides the hat onto his head. “It’s not that bad, is it?”
“It’s hideous.”
“You know I have to wear it during the game.” Aiden smirks at me. “It’s called team spirit.”
“Awesome.”
Ignoring my sarcasm, Aiden grins like a giddy little boy at his first game. “Come on, let’s go find our seats.”
The arena is packed, and the air is charged with excitement and scented with beer and sweat. The lights dim, and music pumps through the speakers, vibrating through the concrete, through my feet and into my already trembling body. The Boston crowd boos when the gate flies open to unleash the visiting team, The Santa Anna Tornadoes. My heart pounds as I sit motionless in my seat, beside Aiden, only five rows away from the ice, in a perfect view from the opposing bench.
I shiver as he breaks through his teammates, flying like lighting down the boards right past our seats. So here I am, watching Cash at a National Hockey League game, my body hyperaware of his presence while he has no idea I’m only thirty feet away from him.
The speakers crackle as the announcer comes on the microphone and I almost jump out of my skin. He announces the home team, the Boston Hackers, and the crowd goes wild, screaming and cheering at a feverish pace. Both teams skate in circles around their sides of the rink, warming up. They take slap shots at their goalie, dance the puck around with their stick, and fire shots against the boards.
I slouch down in my seat, praying to God that Cash doesn’t look up into the crowd and see me sitting here with Aiden. I’m almost desperate enough to disguise myself. I think about taking that ugly wig-hat off Aiden’s head and putting it on mine. I’m that worried Cash will pick me out of this wild and unruly crowd. It’s not like he hasn’t done it before.
The cheers settle, and I watch Cash’s muscular body skate circles around his teammates as they beeline it toward the bench. One of the coaches opens the gate, and the players fly through. My eyes absorb every inch of him skating to center ice with that patented smirk of his, his bright blue eyes blazing with intensity.
“These seats are amazing,” Aiden says from my right. “Your dad is so awesome for getting us this close.”
Too amazing. And way too close.
My mouth is dry as the puck drops. The game is fast, rough, and wild. My heart whams into my chest when Cash takes his tenth shot on net only five minutes into the first period. The goalie’s stopped every single one of his shots. Luck is not on Cash’s side tonight. His eleventh shot pings off the post and the crowd cheers and hollers. When Cash slams a Hackers defender into the boards —JENKINS is written on the back of his jersey—it feels like the entire arena thunders from his force.
Beside me, a girl my age, who’s showing way too much cleavage, jumps up and down and screams like a lunatic. “Go Cash Go! I’ll let you slam me like that anytime!”
I wince, and I feel a surge of untamable jealously I wasn’t expecting. God, I hate him. And I especially hate her. And even more so I hate being here. His female fan base reminds me of my unresolved emotions for him and catapults my fears to a whole new level. I quake inside at the thought of his fake and deceitful life, too many reminders crashing down all around me.
I want to leave.
“This game is crazy intense,” Aiden yells over the noise.
Cash regains control of the puck from a quick pass by one of his teammates. As he skates toward Jenkins, the defender he slammed into the boards only seconds ago, I can see a flicker of vengeance in Jenkin’s eyes. As Cash flies along the boards, up toward the net, the energy in the room is palpable as it shifts from cheers to tension. Just as Cash attempts to crack another shot, Jenkins cross-checks him. Cash hits the boards, and crashes onto the ice.
The crowd cheers and claps at the defender’s attack. Jenkins is thrown into the penalty box.
“Cash Brooks is on fire tonight,” Aiden says with the slightest bit of strain in his voice.
I know he’s probably waiting for my reaction. Aiden has never come out and said he knows Cash was the reason he found me crying in a hotel room with a broken phone. But I know Aiden would love to ask me a hundred questions, if given the chance.
“Knock ’em dead, Jenkins!” someone yells.
“He’s just a washed-up drunk anyway!” another screams.
I want to turn around and slap them into silence. My skin burns a little at the way the crowd reacts to the hit on Cash. I have this gut instinct to protect him. Finally, when I see Cash get up, I take a deep breath to cool off as I watch him skate after the puck.
Relax Quinn. He’s not your problem anymore.
“I think I’m going to grab a beer. Want anything?” Aiden asks.
The buzzer announcing the end of the first period echoes through the rafters.
“No thank you. I’ll wait here.”
With a frown, Aiden slides past me and down the concrete steps, meshing into the crowd.
Minutes into the second period Aiden re-appears.
“I know you said you didn’t want anything, but I grabbed you a tea anyway,” Aiden says, and shuffles past me.
I thank him and take a quick sip, letting the warmth from the tea pour down my throat. Aiden smiles over at me and drapes him arm along the back of my se
at.
“And I know you didn’t want to come tonight, but I’m really happy you did.” Aiden wiggles closer to me. “Are you still okay to meet up with some of our classmates after the game?”
I nod. “Yes, for sure.”
“Okay good.” He glances down at me smiling weakly. “You’re enjoying the game, right?”
“Sure,” I say, grateful that Aiden never seems to push. “It’s all good.”
Even though it totally isn’t.
With only fifteen minutes’ left in the third period, the Hackers are up 1–0 against the Tornadoes. Cash has been viscously quick and untouchable the entire game, which has really pissed off the Hackers defense. Cash continues to blow by them and fire shot after shot on net, but the Hackers goalie won’t let anything by. Aiden is loving every minute of the intense and fast-paced action between the two teams, especially the way the Hackers defense keeps on smashing Cash into the boards.
I, on the other hand, have done my best to repress my feelings for the man I once loved on the ice. I tell myself I am only minutes away from ending this silent torture and I have almost survived every second of it.
When Cash flies out from behind the boards for his last shift, I can see the fire in his eyes. I’m wildly, almost anxiously, rooting for him to pull through and tie up the game. I can see how badly he wants that goal, and I can sense the dedication in his stride.
Within seconds the puck fires across the ice from a Tornadoes defender straight to Cash’s stick. He weaves through the Hackers defense, knocking Jenkins, the same defender he’s been sparring with the entire game, onto the ice before he breaks through for a clear shot.
When he cracks a shot on net, I don’t think I’m breathing.
The puck whizzes through the air and burns past the goalie straight into the net. The crowd explodes around us into a mixture of boos and cheers. Overcome with impulse and excitement, I rise to my feet and cheer. The crowd gets even louder when the other Tornadoes slap Cash on the back and helmet as he celebrates his victory. Nausea washes over me when his cocky blue eyes start scanning the crowd.
