The Goal

by Elle Kennedy

  “Hey, I’m sorry,” the asswipe protests. “It was reflex.”

  But the bouncer doesn’t listen and the guy is dragged out anyway. His friends just watch him go.

  Hollis grins. “Strict fuckers here.”

  “We need that guy on our team,” Fizzy observes.

  “No lie.”

  Sabrina holds out her hand. “Anything I can get for you boys?” Her voice is barely audible over the loud dance beat blaring through the club.

  “Whatever you have on draft.” I keep my eyes fixed above her chin, which is a fucking miracle.

  I don’t miss the unhappiness washing over her face. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to guess she’s embarrassed, and I don’t know how to tell her that where she works doesn’t make a shit’s worth of difference to me.

  Brody flops down in the chair next to mine. He rests his forearms on the tabletop and leans forward to watch the half-naked woman dancing five feet away from us. The tall redhead is in the process of wiggling out of her G-string, leaving her in nothing but a leather holster around her waist and two fake guns.

  “And for you?”

  Hollis’ brother tears his gaze off the naked cowgirl and glances at Sabrina. “Whiskey, neat.”

  “Coming right up.”

  “Thanks, baby.”

  With a strained smile, Sabrina disappears, and somehow I manage not to lunge across the table at Brody. Sabrina’s not his baby. If he calls her that one more time, I’m not sure I’ll be able to restrain myself from beating the living crap out of him.

  “She looks familiar,” Hollis yells in my ear. “The waitress. Doesn’t she?”

  I shrug. “Don’t know.”

  Fitzy turns to study her as she leans forward to take orders at a nearby table. “I guess she looks a little like Olivia Munn?”

  “No way. She’s a million times hotter than her,” Hollis declares. Then he shrugs. “Whatever, maybe I don’t know her.”

  His brother grins. “I’ll ask her later why she looks familiar. You know, when she’s on her knees in front of me.”

  I clench my fists against my thighs. I have to, or I’m going to pound Hollis’ brother into mincemeat and then Hollis will be pissed off. I like Hollis.

  Luckily, Brody decides to stop being a creep, as if on some subconscious level he figured out how close I was to straight-up murdering him. He turns to me and says, “Mikey mentioned you’re going to start your own business?”

  I nod. “That’s the plan.”

  “Got something in mind?”

  “I’m kicking around a few ideas, but I haven’t settled on anything yet. I’ve been focused on hockey.”

  “Yeah, I hear ya.”

  “But once I’m done with school, I’ll evaluate my options.”

  “If you need help, let me know. I’ve got a couple ins with some new opportunities. Really ground-floor stuff. I’m not sure how much cash you’ve got, but these investment opportunities aren’t open to the public. One day you’re in for a couple hundred Gs, and three years later you’re a billionaire when Facebook buys you out.” He snaps his fingers as if it’s just that easy.

  “Sounds interesting. Maybe I’ll give you a call when I’m ready to make some decisions.” I’m nodding again, but really, I have no plans on calling Brody Hollis for investment advice. I’d rather not get suckered into some pyramid scheme, thank you very much.

  Sabrina returns with a tray in her hand, and all my attention instantly belongs to her. She sets down our drinks, standing right at my shoulder. I figure it’s because I’m the least likely to play grab-ass with her and not because she wants to rub her tits across my cheek.

  “I’ll be back in a bit to check on you,” she murmurs before darting off.

  Jesus. I stare at her in admiration, wishing I could run after her and give her a hug. Serving a bunch of Briar guys—not to mention one she’s slept with—can’t be comfortable for her. She could’ve asked her boss to be switched to another section, but she didn’t. She’s continuing to do her job as if our presence doesn’t affect her at all.

  For the next half hour, the guys and I watch the strippers do their thing. Well, the guys watch. Me, I’m wholly focused on Sabrina. I sneak glances at her every other second, barely paying attention to what’s going on around me. I vaguely register laughter and catcalls and snippets of conversation, but my entire world has been reduced to Sabrina James. The sensual sway of her hips as she walks. The high heels that make her long legs look impossibly longer. Every time she walks past our table, I fight the urge to pull her into my lap and kiss her senseless.

  “How much does a girl like you cost?” a loud voice slurs from behind me.

  “I’m not a dancer.”

  My shoulders stiffen when I recognize Sabrina’s voice. The woman on stage has just finished up, and the music volume has dropped a few notches while the next girl gets ready to go on. When I twist around in my chair, I find that the obnoxious frat boys are at it again.

  “But you would be if the price was right,” one of the douchecanoes drawls.

  “No. I just serve drinks.” From where I sit, I can see the tension in her slender shoulders.

  “What if I want more than a drink?” Douchecanoe taunts.

  “Trust me, you don’t want to waste your money on me. I’m a terrible dancer.” Her tone is light on the surface, but steely beneath it. “You need anything else?”

  “Sweetheart, I’m not asking for a Broadway show. I just want you to shake your tits and ass in my face. Maybe rub up on me a bit—”

  That’s it. I’ve had enough.

  I don’t miss Fitzy’s look of confusion as I push out of my chair and march over to the Douche Table.

  “She said no,” I growl.

  The main douche smirks at me. “She’s a fucking stripper, dude.”

  I fold my arms across my chest. “She said no,” I repeat.

  From the corner of my eye I see Sabrina edge backward.

  “Where do you get off?” Douchecanoe demands. “Mind your own business or I’ll—”

  The chair legs behind me scrape against the floor, and Douchecanoe shrinks in his seat as over six hundred pounds of angry hockey players stare down at him. Fitzy is particularly menacing with his two full-sleeve tattoos and the cut over his eyebrow that he got during our last game.

  “You’ll what?” I ask, lifting a brow.

  “Nothing,” the frat boy says sullenly.

  “That’s what I thought.” I bare my teeth at the assholes before the boys and I settle back in our chairs.

  It takes me a second to realize that Sabrina is halfway across the room. She turns, briefly, to glance at our table. When our gazes meet, there’s unmistakable sorrow in hers.

  Before I can stop myself, I pull out my phone and send her a quick text. I don’t know if she still has me blocked, but it can’t hurt to try.

  I’m sorry about that.

  I don’t expect a reply, so when my phone buzzes three minutes later, I’m genuinely surprised. But then I’m pissed, because she texted back:

  Did u follow me here?

  It takes me a minute to regroup. I sip my beer, take a breath, and then answer her with, Meet me at the restrooms?

  This time she responds right away.

  5 min.

  For the next four minutes, I have to force myself not to stare at my phone. Or set a timer. Impatience bubbles in my gut, intensifying with each passing second. By the time I rise to my feet, I’m tense as fuck.

  “Hitting the head,” I mutter, but the guys pay me no attention. Hollis and Brody are too busy shoving dollar bills in a stripper’s G-string, while Fitzy watches them with a bored expression.

  I thread my way through the crowd of mostly men toward the doorway on the other side of the dark room. Boots & Chutes has gone overboard with the western theme—saloon-style doors separate the bathrooms from the main room, and the wooden signs on the restrooms read Gunslingers and Fillies. From behind the Fillies door, I hear th
e muffled sounds of female moans intermingled with male grunts. Classy.

  “So, did you?”

  I whirl around at Sabrina’s voice. She stalks up to me, her arms crossed tightly over her chest in a way that causes her cleavage to spill over her bra.

  “Follow you here, you mean?” I flatten my lips. “No, darlin’, I did not.”

  She studies me for several seconds before nodding. “Okay. I believe you.” Then she turns to walk away.

  Oh hell no.

  “Sabrina,” I say in a low voice.

  She stops. “W-what?”

  Something inside of me melts when I hear the crack in her voice. She keeps her back to me, her spine like a metal rod. By the time I reach her, any indignation I felt over her unfair assumption has faded away. I gently touch her arm to shift her around so we’re facing each other.

  “Sabrina?” I keep my voice soft, safe.

  She visibly swallows. “This is where I work.”

  I give a slow nod. “This is where you work.”

  “That’s it? You’ve got nothing else to say about that?”

  I stroke her bare shoulder with the pad of my thumb, gratified to feel her shiver. “This is your place of employment. You get paid to work here. You use those paychecks to pay your bills, I’m assuming. What else do you want me to say?”

  But I know what she expected from me. Judgment. Contempt. Maybe a lewd comment or two.

  I’m not that man, though.

  She keeps watching me, until finally a small smile plays on her gorgeous lips. “I’m waiting for the part where you tell me you never come to these places, your friends just dragged you here against your will, yada yada.”

  “I’d be lying if I said I’ve never been to a strip club. But I kind of did get dragged here tonight—I voted for the sports bar. And the only reason I even came to Boston was because…” I trail off, because the last thing I want to do is scare her off again.

  “Because what?”

  Fuck it. I shrug and say, “I was hoping maybe I’d run into you.”

  Sabrina laughs. “Boston’s a big place—you really expected to randomly run into me?”

  “Expected, no. Hoped? Abso-fucking-lutely.”

  That gets me another laugh.

  We stare at each other for a beat. My voice comes out gravelly as I murmur, “You unblocked my number.”

  “I unblocked your number,” she agrees.

  Then she moistens her bottom lip with the tip of her tongue, and I swallow a groan. Fuck, I want to kiss her.

  “I should…get back to work.”

  There’s only the tiniest sliver of reluctance in her words, but a sliver is all I need. “When do you get off?”

  “Two.”

  “Do you want to hang out when you’re done?”

  She doesn’t answer right away. I stand there, holding my breath, hoping that the raw, overpowering lust I feel for her doesn’t show on my face, praying that she’ll say—

  “Yes.”

  9

  Tucker

  I wait for Sabrina in the parking lot. Almost all the cars are gone, except for a half dozen that probably belong to the employees. The guys went back to Brody’s apartment a couple hours ago, where they’ll probably stay up all night drinking. I told them I was meeting a girl for a late bite, which got me a high-five from Hollis even as he griped about what a shitty person I was for not making sure she had a friend.

  After they dropped me off at an all-night diner a few blocks from the club, the site of my supposed date, I killed an hour by grabbing a burger and chugging some coffee so that I wouldn’t fall asleep within five minutes of seeing Sabrina. Then I walked back to Boots & Chutes, and now I’m leaning against the driver’s side of Sabrina’s Honda, monitoring the front entrance in anticipation.

  When she appears, my excitement kicks up a notch. She’s wearing a wool coat that goes down to her knees. Below that, her legs are bare.

  My dick twitches as I wonder if she’s still wearing those booty shorts. Then I chastise myself, because I could tell how embarrassed she was earlier by the skimpy outfit.

  “Hey,” she says as she reaches me.

  “Hey.”

  I want to kiss her, but she’s not sending any c’mere, big boy signals. I need to touch her, though, so I step closer and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.

  Hesitating, she bites her lip. “Where are we going?”

  “Where do you want to go?” I’m leaving the decision entirely up to her.

  “Are you hungry?”

  “Nope. Just ate. You?”

  “I had an energy bar during my last break.”

  I wink at her. “You thought you’d need energy, huh? Why’s that?”

  Her cheeks take on the cutest shade of pink. I see her fighting a smile, and when it breaks free, I do an internal fist pump. She’s so gorgeous when she smiles. I really wish she’d do it more often.

  She glances around. “Your truck’s not here.”

  “Yeah, it’s back in Hastings. We drove up in Fitzy’s car.”

  She nods and nibbles on her lip again. “I…well…what should we do, then?”

  “No pressure.” I move even closer, loosely resting one hand on her hip while the other traces the line of her jaw. My pulse speeds up when she doesn’t shy away from my touch. “We can walk around. Just chill in the car and talk. Whatever you want.”

  Sabrina lets out a sigh that leaves a white puff in the cold night air. “I don’t feel like walking. It’s cold out and my feet hurt from being on them all night. And my car is way too small for you. You’d be uncomfortable in five seconds.”

  “Do you want to go back to your place?”

  She tenses up. “Not really.” Another breath slides out. “I don’t want you to…”

  “To what?”

  “I don’t want you to see where I live.” She sounds defensive. “It’s shitty, okay?”

  My heart squeezes a little. I don’t respond, because I’m not sure what to say.

  “Well, not my bedroom,” she relents. “That’s not shitty.”

  Sabrina goes silent, as if she’s fighting some internal battle.

  “I meant what I said before,” I tell her in a soft voice. “No pressure. But if you’re worried that I’m going to judge where you live, stop right now. I don’t care if you live in a mansion or a shack. I just want to spend time with you, wherever and whenever.”

  When I rub her lips with my thumb, the tension seeps out of her shoulders. “Okay,” she finally whispers. “Let’s go to my house.”

  I search her face. “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah, it’s fine. I’d rather be somewhere warm and cozy right now. Not that my house is warm and cozy, but it’s definitely warmer in there than it is out here.”

  Having made her decision, she unlocks the driver’s door and slides behind the wheel. I get into the passenger side. And she’s not wrong—my legs are not digging this vehicle. Even when I push the chair back as far as it can go, there’s still no room to stretch out.

  She starts the car and pulls out of the lot. “I don’t live too far from here.”

  After that, she doesn’t say much for the rest of the drive. I don’t know if she’s nervous or if she regrets agreeing to hang with me, but I hope to hell it’s not the latter.

  I don’t push her to talk, because I know how skittish she can be. Patience is the name of the game here, and patience with Sabrina James comes with a reward. She’s got so much passion that it’s simply a matter of helping her reach a level of comfort that allows her to let go.

  When we turn onto her street, I pretend it’s the first time that I’ve ever been here. That I don’t recognize the narrow, ramshackle row houses. That I hadn’t slept in my car right over by that uneven curb the night I followed her home to make sure she got there safe.

  Sabrina turns into a driveway at the side of the house, steering toward the small carport in the rear. She kills the engine and exits the car in silence.

>   “This way,” she murmurs when I round the vehicle.

  She doesn’t take my hand, but she does check to make sure I’m following as she climbs the three low steps of the back stoop. Her keys jingle softly in the quiet night as she unlocks the door.

  A moment later, we step into a tiny kitchen. It has ugly yellow-and-pink-patterned wallpaper, and in the center sits a square wood table surrounded by four chairs. The appliances look old, but they’re clearly in working order because dirty pots and pans are strewn atop the stove burners.

  Sabrina blanches at the mess. “My grandmother always forgets to clean up after herself,” she says without meeting my gaze.

  I glance around the cramped space. “It’s just the two of you here?”

  “No. My stepfather lives here too.” She doesn’t elaborate, and I don’t ask for details. “Don’t worry, though. Friday is poker night—he usually stays out and then stumbles home sometime around noon the next day. And Nana takes an Ambien every night before bed. She sleeps like the dead.”

  I wasn’t worried, but I get the feeling she’s not trying to reassure me, but herself.

  “My room’s this way.” She ducks into the corridor before I can say a word.

  I trail after her, noting how narrow the hall is, how dirty the carpet is, how there aren’t any family photos hanging on the walls. My heart starts to ache, because the droop of Sabrina’s shoulders tells me that she’s ashamed of this place.

  Fuck. I hate seeing her look so defeated. I want to tell her about the peeling paint in our place down in Texas, about how for the entirety of high school I slept in the tiniest room in the house so Mom could use the larger bedroom for her in-home hair salon that supplements the income from her hairdresser job in town.

  I keep quiet, though. I’m following her lead here.

  Her room is small, tidy, and clearly her source of refuge. The double bed is perfectly made with a pale blue comforter. Her desk is immaculate, overloaded with neatly stacked textbooks. It smells clean and fresh in here, like pine, lemon and something addictively feminine.

  Sabrina unbuttons her coat, shrugs it off, and drapes it over the desk chair.