Playing Dirty

by Taryn Leigh Taylor

  * * *

  HE WAS GETTING too damn old for this.

  Coop grabbed his glass from the counter. Revulsion curled his lip as he stared at the sludge he’d just been served while the dust from his spectacular crash and burn settled around him. A post-practice night out with his teammates used to mean a luxurious night in the VIP room of some exclusive New York club, complete with overpriced bottle service, an overhyped DJ and an underdressed woman. Or two.

  Since he’d taken the trade to Portland, there’d been a couple of team dinners, a little charity work and a whole lot of practices. But that’s how the Storm had all but guaranteed their spot in the postseason over a month ago. Intense focus.

  In fact, it had been so much all-work-and-no-play that his agent, Jared Golden, had called to give Cooper hell. “I can’t get endorsement deals for a hermit, Mead. Leaving New York is already hurting your visibility. You know how much harder it is for me to get your picture in a magazine when you’re in Portland? At least go out and live a little.”

  Which was why Cooper had finally relented and accepted one of fellow defenseman Brett Sillinger’s relentless requests to “grab a beer and talk hockey.” He fully regretted the decision now.

  He’d assumed there would be a group of them heading out for one last drink before playoffs got underway. But when he’d asked around the dressing room after practice, it turned out he was on his own. Every player on the team had somewhere else to be—captain Luke Maguire was going to some media shindig with his intrepid reporter girlfriend, centerman Eric Jacobs was meeting some after-hours contractor at the bakery he owned and goaltender Tyson Mackinaw’s kids were performing in some school play.

  The rest of the team’s excuses followed in those footsteps: wife, wife, girlfriend, kids, girlfriend’s kids.

  Jesus. Everyone on this damn team was—or acted like—an old married guy.

  Except for him...and Brett of course.

  And for reasons Cooper couldn’t possibly explain, the rookie had chosen the worst bar imaginable—a run-down watering hole that probably catered to former high school jocks bent on reliving their glory days through ESPN highlights. And he didn’t even have the decency to show up on time.

  As if to confirm Cooper’s suspicions, the bell on the door dinged and in lumbered a whole flock of washed-up jocks decked out in the finest basketball paraphernalia the mall had to offer.

  “Hey there, beautiful lady. Turn up that TV! The game starts in ten minutes.”

  Coop’s fingers tightened on his Black Widow. The bartender’s smile was full-bodied and sexy when it wasn’t tinged with acid, and he hated that some loudmouth sporting love handles and an ill-fitting Trail Blazers jersey was the recipient and not him.

  “Larry, you only think I’m beautiful because I didn’t raise the happy hour price of beer.” Her admonishment was accompanied by the familiar singsong lilt of sportscasters everywhere as she hit the volume button on the remote.

  “Sweetcheeks—” Cooper did his best to stifle a gag at the endearment “—you know that’s not true. One word from you and I’d—holy hockey pucks, you’re Cooper Mead!”

  So much for lying low.

  “Wow, you’re, like, a real athlete! A famous one! Man, you think you could sign something for my kid? He totally idolizes you! And the guys! The whole team! I do, too. I mean, that slap shot of yours? Big fan. We all are! Thanks to you, the Storm might have a real shot in the playoffs.” He offered with an expansive gesture. “Guys! Check it out! Cooper Mead! At our bar.”

  The chorus of greetings and swears of disbelief were accompanied by the materialization of cell phones. Calls were placed. Photos were snapped. The couple from the other side of the bar wandered over. Not exactly how he’d planned to spend his evening, but at least Golden would be happy.

  With a resigned sigh, he brought his drink to his lips.

  He stopped just in time.

  Suicide by toxic sludge was never the answer.

  Instead, Cooper turned on his best PR smile and accepted the napkin being thrust in his direction. “Who should I make this out to?”

  * * *

  “WHAT THE HELL happened here?”

  The deep voice ripped into a close inspection of her palm, and Lainey looked up from her crouched position in front of the open beer fridge. From this vantage point, the man fingering the assortment of bottles she’d left on the counter appeared even taller than usual.

  Darius Johnson. Prelaw student, smart-ass and not a big fan of hers. Which Lainey figured made sense, seeing as he was her fa—Martin’s last hire.

  Also, she’d cleaned house when she’d first arrived, firing a dishonest bartender and a couple of slothful waitresses. Despite the months that had passed, Lainey got the impression that the remaining staff were still a little wary that she’d go all “off with their heads” on them at any moment. She didn’t bother doing anything to disabuse them of that notion. It didn’t matter if Darius was fun to spar with, or that she kind of enjoyed Aggie’s no-nonsense wisdom. Lainey was here to sell the bar. She wasn’t looking to make friends.

  All in all, Darius was a solid bartender and great with the regulars. And Lainey wasn’t above exploiting the fact that he was popular with the coeds—they loved his soulful eyes, café-au-lait complexion and killer smile. Or at least those were some of the giggled compliments she’d heard when they were gathered at the counter, fawning over him on a Friday night. They didn’t seem to mind his stupid goatee, either.

  She let the flirting stand, because if you could get the ladies into a bar, the guys would follow. And the fact that some of Darius’s fellow students were choosing to spend their money in a crappy sports bar instead of a flashy nightclub did good things for the bottom line. And it was a bottom line that needed all the help it could get.

  Still, that didn’t keep her from imagining firing Darius at least three times per shift, if only for the peace and quiet.

  “Give me a hard time for not keeping my workspace clear, but I show up to a mess of bottles on the counter when you’re in charge,” he muttered, the way he always did when he was trying to get under her skin.

  “It was recipe development,” she said simply. “It’s called a Black Widow.”

  Darius frowned as he set the Cinnamon Schnapps back on the shelf. “You put all this stuff in the same glass? Whoever he was, he must’ve really pissed you off.”

  Embarrassed, Lainey rubbed her fingers against her cheek in a vain attempt to extinguish the lingering prickle where Cooper’s knuckles had touched her. “Don’t think I didn’t notice that you’re late.” She made sure her voice was as frosty as the draft mugs that rattled when she slammed the cooler door. “For future reference, your shifts are posted in Pacific Time.”

  Darius glanced over his shoulder as he returned the Kahlua, the Blue Curacao and some banana liqueur to the appropriate shelves. “He definitely pissed you off.”

  “You pissed me off,” Lainey corrected, standing. “I know Martin let stuff like this slide, but I’m trying to sell this place. I can’t afford not to have things running smoothly.”

  “You keep saying that, but you’ve been here for three months and counting. I’m starting to think we’re never gonna be rid of you.”

  Lainey pulled a face at his broad back when he turned to clean up her mess.

  “You know I can see you in this mirror, right?”

  She schooled her features into a neutral expression. “And you know that I have the power to fire you, right?”

  “Well, before you let all your authority go to your head and I end up suing you for wrongful termination, you should probably check your phone. I texted you that I was running late. But I’ll let it go, because I’m in a stellar mood. Sandra and I shared a hell of a goodbye before her Uber showed up to take her to the airport.”

  Dar
ius’s expression was dripping with satisfaction. “Which is why I got here late, if you know what I mean.” He waited a beat. “And what I mean is that we had copious amounts of sexual intercourse.”

  “Thanks for the clarification, wonder stud.” Lainey rolled her eyes at him. “But I’m not sure that’s the type of excuse that will stand up in court. As a future lawyer, you’ll want to familiarize yourself with labor laws.”

  The well-timed entrance of Agnes Demille saved Lainey from Darius’s retort. The zaftig waitress materialized from the “Staff Only” door to their right, plopped her massive gold lamé purse on the counter behind the bar, grimaced and slung it back on her shoulder. “Honestly, you two. I’ve been here for thirty seconds, and there’s already a table full of customers with no beer and a sticky counter. This ain’t no way to run a business. ’Specially on game night. Let’s get a move on, people! Darius, hand me that rag.”

  Darius peeled the blue rag from the sink and dropped it in front of Aggie, who set to work immediately, scrubbing at the sticky rings on the counter. “So, Lainey,” she said, not bothering to look up from her task, “I’m thinkin’ the two of us need to have a little chitchat.”

  Lainey ignored the resulting shiver down her spine. Aggie could size up a room quicker than anyone Lainey had ever met, and she didn’t miss a detail. Especially not a ridiculously handsome one wielding a glass full of sludge. In an attempt to sidestep the conversation, Lainey placed a tray on the counter and systematically loaded it with six frosty bottles of beer from the cooler. “Beers for Larry’s table, as requested.”

  Unfortunately, the announcement didn’t faze the formidable woman before her. “They can wait. What you just did to Cooper Mead can’t.”

  “What?” Darius’s brows dove into a V as he scanned the customers. A sharp bark of laughter confirmed he’d located his target. “Are you kidding me? The Black Widow was for Cooper Mead? That is so awesome!” He held up an expectant palm in her direction, then thought better of it and aborted the high five. “Man, it sucks I was late! I would’ve loved to have seen his face when you handed it over. So what’s Mr. Big Shot doing here, anyway?”

  “Bible study starts in ten minutes.”

  Darius shot Lainey a pained smile as she bent to grab a bottle of water from the fridge.

  “Well, don’t be a moron. It’s a bar, for God’s sake. What do you think he’s doing here?”

  “It’s a floundering sports bar,” he corrected pointedly. “Hardly the preferred scene of professional athletes.”

  Lainey stiffened at the comment. “Then you should be glad he’s here. He shelled out for his drink, so you might actually get paid on time this week.”

  Darius had the grace to blush. “You know I didn’t mean it like that.”

  “Yeah, I know.” Twisting open her water, Lainey took a long swallow and stared blankly at a framed hockey jersey—number 42—on the opposite wall. “I have no idea what he’s doing here, either,” she confessed.

  Lainey took another bracing gulp of water, screwed the lid back on and turned to meet Aggie’s unrelenting stare.

  “It’s no big deal,” Lainey assured the carroty-hued waitress. Further proof that cheap self-tanning lotion, like Cooper Mead, was one more on a long list of items to be avoided.

  “He fed me a lame line, I gave him a disgusting drink. As you can see, he didn’t take it too hard.” She gestured toward a smiling Cooper as he posed for a camera phone.

  “Just because a man notices you got a nice rack don’t mean you need to start handin’ out the Black Widows.” Agnes shook her frizzy, brassy-hued curls. “I never shoulda told you about those.”

  “She’s right, Lainey,” Darius interjected. “You do have a nice rack.”

  She landed a hard punch on his shoulder. “Back off, pervert.”

  Lainey turned back to Aggie with “I told you so” plastered all over her expression. “You see? I’m rude to all overbearing jackasses! It’s what I do.”

  Agnes planted a fist on one generous, black-spandex-covered hip. “Yeah, but Cooper Mead ain’t every other jackass.”

  “Oh, no? And what makes him so special?”

  “That’s what I’d like to know,” Darius threw in.

  “I mean, sure, he’s gorgeous,” Lainey conceded. “And there’s no denying the way that voice rumbles through your chest and trickles down to all the right places, and yeah, okay, I may have almost had an orgasm just looking at him.”

  Aggie nodded dreamily, and both women shot a wistful look in Cooper’s direction. Not that they were bonding or anything. This was strictly physical appreciation of a handsome man, not friendship.

  “I can’t believe Cooper Mead is signing beer coasters in your sports bar!” Aggie sighed. “It’s like a freakin’ fairy tale or somethin’.”

  “Funny. I don’t actually remember the part in Cinderella when she had to change her panties.”

  Lainey grimaced, disgusted out of her aesthetic appreciation. “Ugh. Darius. Seriously. Why do you have to be such a guy?”

  “You do realize you’re practically forcing me to grab my crotch right now, don’t you?”

  “All I’m sayin’,” Aggie stressed, “is that sometimes you gotta swallow your pride, think of the big picture. Normally when you castrate someone, the fate of your business ain’t riding on it.”

  “What?” Lainey rolled her eyes. “The fate of my business is hardly riding on Cooper Mead’s penis.”

  Darius’s snicker earned him two glares. “What? You said penis.”

  “It’s resting on my shoulders,” Lainey countered, with the pious look of stone angels the world over. “And I can handle it.”

  “I know you can! But use that big ol’ brain of yours. Bein’ attentive to a man with fame and money is just good business sense.”

  Lainey turned her head to hide her frown.

  “Cooper Mead is the Pied Piper of cool an’ you darn well know it. Where he goes, the puck bunnies and the sports fans follow. I don’t think makin’ nice with him is too much to ask! You know, most joints would kill to have a pro athlete walk through their door! And you’re the one always jabbering about selling this joint.”

  “You do realize that Mr. Rich and Famous over there was interested in my phone number, not an endorsement deal,” Lainey pointed out.

  “I think you mean Mr. Sexy, Rich and Famous.” Agnes sent an appreciative glance at the object of their discussion, who appeared to be talking to someone’s kid via FaceTime. “Emphasis on the sexy.”

  “Well, Mr. Sexy, Rich and Famous,” Lainey amended, “is kind of a shallow, conceited jerk, emphasis on the jerk.”

  “Who cares? I don’t wanna waste time talkin’ to him! Man who looks that good could have me anytime, anywhere.”

  Heat, not unlike the sear of a good shot of whisky, burned in Lainey’s stomach at the thought of Cooper and sex, and her mind was seized by an alarmingly vivid vision of him, naked on a king-size battlefield, expertly wielding his...uh, sword.

  Luckily the flashing of a disturbingly high number on the “Now Serving” sign above the imaginary bed doused the flame before it reddened her cheeks.

  “Listen, your daddy was a good guy, but a so-so businessman. This place can use all the good publicity it can get. ’Specially the free kind.” Oblivious to Lainey’s inner turmoil, Agnes walked to the other side of the counter and hefted the tray of beer to her shoulder. “I’m gonna deliver these, but I want you to promise me that when you turn around and see that a certain teammate of his is here, you’re going to play nice, okay? Take care of things nice and quiet. Don’t make a scene.”

  Aggie’s warning tone left little doubt as to the identity of Cooper’s teammate, and Lainey’s gaze jerked to the newly occupied table in the back corner, near the stage.

  With a curse, she stomped out f
rom behind the bar with every intent of telling table seventeen to go to hell, despite Aggie’s well-meaning advice.

  2

  WHEN COOPER HAD finished smiling for the camera, he found Brett smirking at him from a table at the back of the bar.

  Perfect timing.

  Cooper wasn’t exactly sure what he’d done to piss off Fate, but she sure knew how to hold a grudge. With a deep, steadying breath, he straightened his shoulders, braced for sniper fire and marched manfully to the seat Brett had saved for him.

  Cooper placed his drink on the table and flopped into the empty chair.

  Sillinger leaned indolently back in his own, his ball cap pulled witness-protection-program low to avoid the autograph gauntlet that Coop had just endured. “So? How’d it go, Romeo? Did you use the drink pickup line? Did she bite?”

  Cooper bit back the expletives he wished he could unleash, and, with a disgusted shake of his head, reached into his wallet and shoved a pile of crisp fifties at his teammate. It was his own damn fault. He never should have made the bet in the first place. But sometimes when the kid wouldn’t stop yammering, it was easier to give in than listen to him talk.

  Brett smiled and gathered the cash. Cooper leaned forward and folded his arms on the table, a move that brought him eye-level with the thick, muddy mixture in his glass. He couldn’t remember seeing many things more unappetizing than the tar-like substance. But if he was being honest, he’d had a pretty good time ordering it. It had been way too long since he’d indulged in flirtatious banter, and the hot bartender was an accomplished adversary.

  “That drink looks like it tastes like shit. What is it?”

  “This,” he said as dismissively as he could manage, straightening in his chair, “is a Black Widow.”

  Sillinger’s choked laughter was right on cue, but it made Cooper’s hands tighten into fists anyway.