by T. Torrest
I don’t know how long the fight lasted, but once the bouncers got involved, it was over pretty quickly. They pulled people apart and threw out the most troublesome of the troublemakers, Nick included.
A few people were patting Zac on the back as I made my way through the crowd toward him. As soon as he saw me, he threw his arms around my waist and pulled me to him in a smothering hug. He was sweaty, and he smelled like a brewery from the beer that had spilled on him, but that didn’t stop me from hugging him back. As if it could.
“Are you okay?” he asked. He pulled back and checked me over, looking for any damage to my person.
I was shaking, but I was unhurt. Physically, at least. “Yeah. I think so,” I answered, as I returned the scrutiny. His hair was a tangled mass of black, sticking out in every direction, and his tailored shirt was torn at the shoulder. I took note of his injuries—aside from a bloody lip, he was only sporting a few scrapes and some raw skin on his cheeks and knuckles. “Are you okay?”
“Never better,” he grinned.
“What about that?” I asked, pointing to his mouth. “Will you get in trouble at work tomorrow? How are you going to explain the split lip?”
“I’m a hockey player, Avery. No explanation needed beyond that. Are you sure you’re alright?”
“Yes, I swear. Freaked out, but I’m okay.”
No one had ever ‘defended my honor’ before. I probably should have been disgusted or horrified, but honestly? All I could seem to feel at that moment was grateful.
And not just because Zac had stepped up to play Batman.
He’d pulled me in for another hug, binding his arms around me tightly, trying to still my shivering. Problem was, being that close to him was most of the reason why I was still shaking in the first place. His heart was beating like crazy, leftover adrenaline from the fight. Mine was only racing from being wrapped up in his arms.
I picked at a stray thread from the torn shirt at his shoulder, playing the brawl over in my mind. I closed my eyes against the vision and I was instantaneously reminded of a much more entertaining moment from the fight.
“You’re about to find out why people call me that?” I chuckled against his chest, busting his chops.
I couldn’t contain my giggles as he shot back, “They’re not all winners, baby.”
Chapter Four
MAY 1997
Zac’s family owned a bar a few towns over, and he’d gotten the guys to go there a handful of times over the years. Johnny’s was their home base, but they liked having another option every once in a while.
I hadn’t gotten the chance to check it out until tonight, however.
We walked into The Westlake Pub and I was immediately smacked with the smell of warm food and beer-soaked wood. The building was a large, open space with high ceilings accented by weathered, wooden beams. Even the walls were adorned in wood, framing the few rectangles of decrepit sheetrock plastered with beer ads and band posters.
There was a large square bar on one side of the room, and a long bar along the opposite wall. It faced a wall of windows which looked out onto the lake out back, but as it was already dark out, I couldn’t see more than some random lights along the perimeter. It must’ve been beautiful during the daytime. I made a point to get back during daylight hours someday in order to appreciate the view.
A bunch of guys from the team were already there, but the place would have been crowded regardless. People of all ages occupied the stools along the bars and gathered at the hightop tables in between. The tables sat in the middle of what looked to be a repurposed dance floor. Two minutes in the door, and I could already tell that a place like this had no need for such a thing. It was not the type of bar where people came to dance.
Casey nabbed a booth just as a group was leaving from it, sliding onto the vinyl seat before the last person had even left. Commandeering a good seat at a bar sometimes required guerilla tactics, and Casey’s little body was the perfect size to sneak in under the radar.
Simon grabbed us a round and we settled into the booth. I was facing the long bar, and I could see Zac behind it, enthusiastically holding court and serving drinks. He seemed comfortable enough behind the taps, but I guessed since he’d grown up in this environment, some of it had rubbed off.
There was a large chalkboard behind his head, listing a dozen drink concoctions. They were named after different sports terms and made up of a bunch of different liquors, some of which I’d never even heard of. There were Slam Dunks, Double Dribbles, Alley-Oops, First Downs, something called a Safety (that was mostly juice), Slap Shots, Penalty Shots, and my favorite: The Game Misconduct. It had about a million ingredients and was served in a glass fish bowl. It was also served with a warning that a customer was only allowed to order one, because it supposedly put the imbiber “out for the night.”
The tables at the booths were all carved up and doodled on with people’s names, bits of wisdom, and a few bad jokes. I guessed such behavior was not only tolerated, but encouraged, because there was a Sharpie hanging from a small hook at every station with a long chain attaching it to the paneling. Simon was busily scratching his and Casey’s initials into our table with it when I excused myself to the bathroom.
On my way back, I took a moment to check out some of the framed pictures. The Westlake was a sports pub through and through, and the photos on the wall reflected that. There were numerous clippings from the local newspapers, shots of high school football games and YMCA basketball teams.
I was eyeing up an eight-by-ten of Zac, on the ice, his stick in mid-swing, when I heard a voice behind me. “That’s one of my favorites.”
I turned to find an older man standing there. Salt and pepper hair, warm smile. Handsome.
“It’s a great shot,” I answered back.
The smile grew a bit wider as he said, “I suppose I’m a little biased. That’s my son. He plays for the Devils now.”
“Oh, this is your place! You’re Mr. McAllister.”
“Yes. You know Zac?”
“Yeah. I sort of came with him.”
“Really?” he asked. “Well, I shouldn’t be surprised. He always knew how to find the prettiest girls.”
Oh crap. The guy thought I was dating his son. “No. I mean, I sort of came here with him… and a bunch of other people. We hang out sometimes. As friends. With other friends.” I knew I was babbling, but I was only trying to make it clear that I was not Zac’s girlfriend, in spite of my occasional wishes to the contrary. “I’m sorry. My name’s Avery. Brooks, actually.”
His kind grin put me at ease as he held out his hand for me to shake. “Oh, so you’re Benny’s daughter.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, that pretty much makes you my son’s boss, now, doesn’t it?” His comment made me giggle as he added, “And it’s Rudy. Please don’t call me Mr. McAllister. After all, we’re practically family.”
I gave a shy smile as he put an arm around my shoulders, directing my focus to the wall once more. He pointed to all the pictures in turn, explaining what each person had done to make it onto his Wall of Fame. There were local guys who had excelled in their chosen sport and some girls who had been part of various Olympic teams. There were pictures of everything from professional sports figures right on down to the little leaguers who’d made it to the state finals.
He lingered over the photos of his sons—I was reminded that there were four, God help him—telling of their myriad accomplishments in great detail; the beaming pride in his voice was unmistakable. It would have been embarrassing if I hadn’t found it completely endearing.
I’d been so enraptured listening to all of Mr. McAllister’s stories that I didn’t even realize Zac had joined us.
“Moving in on my girl?” he asked, handing me a fresh beer as he took a sip of his own. “Don’t listen to a thing this guy tells you. It’s all lies, I promise you.”
“Hmm,” I answered back, shooting a conspiratorial grin at Zac’s father. “So, you
weren’t MVP of your high school hockey team? You don’t hold the all-time school record for most goals scored?”
Zac gave a sheepish smile as he corrected, “I meant don’t believe anything bad.”
His father shot me a sidelong smirk (which reminded me an awful lot of his son) as he said, “Aww, Zac. You’ve always been an angel. Everyone knows that.”
The comment had me sputtering out a laugh. Too bad I was mid-sip at the time. I cupped my hand to my chin and swiped the beer from my lips as Zac and his father chuckled at my predicament.
“Drinking problem,” they both coughed out in unison, which just had me cracking up all over again.
Chapter Five
JANUARY 1998
I pulled into the lot at Johnny’s just as David Bowie’s “Changes” came on the radio. It was blasphemous to go inside without listening to it in its entirety, so I rolled down the windows and hopped up onto the hood of my Jetta. Lounging back against the windshield, I watched the stars as a few snowflakes flurried onto my face. I closed my eyes and sang along, trying to fully enjoy the warmth of my car at my back and the chill of the night along my front, but my brain wouldn’t shut off.
I was leaving to head back to school the next day, and my mind was consumed with seeing Mike once I got back there. We’d been friends since my freshman year, but just started dating a few months ago. He only lived a couple towns away from me here at home, but he’d spent the Christmas break skiing out in Colorado with his family, so I hadn’t seen him since we drove home from Pennsylvania together.
I knew I’d see him tomorrow, though.
And I wasn’t much looking forward to breaking up with him.
He was a great guy, and he was super cute, and really funny but… I don’t know. I wasn’t sure why someone who checked all the boxes didn’t send my heart racing whenever I thought about him. Shouldn’t I have felt more… well, more for him?
It figured that at that exact moment, a certain familiar voice broke my reverie. “Wow. A hot chick listening to Bowie? I think I’m in love.”
I didn’t open my eyes and simply broke into a smile as I said, “That’s funny coming from someone with a cold, dead heart.”
“Ouch. Now that hurts, Ave.” I giggled as he added, “What are you doing out here?”
“Thinking.” I finally cracked my lids to see Zac standing over me. “You’re blocking my sun,” I teased.
“It’s January. And nighttime. And you’re wearing way too many clothes.” I laughed as he gave a tug to my ski hat, pulling it over my eyes. “You bring up an interesting point, though. How come I never get to see you in a bikini?”
It was true that we didn’t ever hang out during the off-season. I didn’t even know why that was. Our association had always revolved around hockey, I guess. Summer was always the time for players to go back to their real lives.
“It’s January. And nighttime,” I teased back.
He shot me a dirty look as he took my hand. “C’mon, Nanook. Let’s get you inside.”
I let him haul me off the car, then I locked everything up before following him into the bar. He was still holding my hand as we searched the room for Casey and Simon. Thank God I was wearing my mittens, because I was so nervous about this interesting turn of events that my palms were getting sweaty.
When we finally found our friends, I gave Casey a wave with my free hand.
“Well, look what the dog dragged in,” she busted.
I laughed at her play on words. “Hey guys,” I greeted as I slid into the booth.
When Zac skootched me over to sit down, I realized that we’d be playing foursome again. It looked as though tonight was going to be one of those atypical evenings where he spent more of his time with his friends instead of going on the prowl for his next conquest.
Even though his conquests weren’t too difficult to come by.
“I already ordered you guys a round,” Case said as she flagged down the waitress. “What took you so long?”
Before I could respond, Zac jumped in. “I found her out front trying to freeze to death.”
Casey tried to hide her smile when she said, “Nah. Avery has built up an immunity to the cold.”
I knew what she was leading up to. I glared at her as I removed my coat and hat, trying to contain a grin as I warned, “Case, don’t say it…”
“Hey, Avery. Why don’t you tell Simon and Zac about that night you spent in the penalty box!”
“What?” the guys laughed out, waiting on my explanation.
I shot Casey a dirty look. “It wasn’t the whole night,” I defended, twisting my hair into a ponytail.
Zac leaned back in his seat and crossed his hands over his stomach. “Oh, now I just have to hear this one.”
I groaned through a laugh, figuring there was no way to get out of telling the story. I waited for our server to finish unloading our beers onto the table before starting in. “Okay. When I was little, I used to spend a lot of time at the arena.”
“You spend a lot of time there now,” Zac said.
“No. I pop in on occasion. When I was around ten or eleven, I was there all the time.”
“Okay…”
“Well. I used to putter around the building after practices, score some free snacks from the concessions, play with the air-dryers in the bathrooms, stuff like that. Basically, Dad always knew where to find me when it was time to go. This one night, I snuck off and went to hang out in the rink—I loved being in that big, empty space by myself—and I guess I was waiting there for so long that I fell asleep. By the time my father was ready to leave, I was nowhere to be found. He went crazy searching for me in all my usual spots. No one had seen me. They called arena security, and eventually, the Rutherford police.”
“Shut up!” Simon laughed.
“One of the janitors finally found me hours later in the penalty box, sleeping like I didn’t have a care in the world. Problem is, I’d been in there so long, they thought I fell asleep because of hypothermia. I kept saying I was fine, but they brought me to the hospital anyway to make sure.”
Zac was grinning like an idiot as he asked, “And…?”
“And, clean bill of health. They sent me out of there with this weird silver blanket, and I went home, good as new.”
“Awww, Diddums,” Zac faux-sympathized.
“Hey, I got a new bike out of the deal. I’m not complaining. I just always feel bad for doing that to my father! He was worried sick.”
“Jesus,” Simon chortled. “I think that qualifies you for some sort of record. Even McAllister hasn’t spent that many minutes in the bin!”
Casey shook her head. “Avery, I swear to God, you’re such a wacko sometimes.”
I laughed, but didn’t get the chance to deliver an appropriate rebuttal, because Zac put a hand over mine and shot back, “Why do you think I like her so much?”
The bones of my hand turned to mush at his touch, but the rest of me positively melted when I saw the look on his face. He was aiming a crooked smile in my direction, his gorgeous green eyes raking over me in appreciation.
I’d seen that same look a few times over the past two years, and it always knocked me out just as much as it had that first time, the night when he was trying to show me how he ‘didn’t need lines.’
With that smoldering mug staring me down, I became well aware that he certainly did not.
I didn’t know what I’d done to warrant “the look” tonight. We’d spent a lot of time in each other’s company, and he often flirted with me, but that was only because he flirted with everybody. The sex appeal was just a huge chunk of his personality… not like I was going to complain. You remember that little dinosaur in Jurassic Park who spit the acid in Newman’s face? Yeah. That was what it was like being around Zac. You’d just be hanging out, minding your own business, when SPLAT!
Dead.
“You only like her because you thought she wanted to jump your bones,” Simon said.
I almost choked
on my beer. What the fuck, Simon? How would he even know something like that? It’s not as though I ever told him how I felt. I barely even mentioned anything to Casey, for godsakes, and she was my best friend! Were my feelings just that obvious? Oh God. Kill me.
Thankfully, Casey jumped in to cover. “What the hell are you talking about? She hated him that first night and has barely tolerated him since!”
Simon cracked up at that. It wasn’t every day that Zac got shot down, so I was sure his friend found it amusing when he did.
“You’ve tolerated me?” Zac asked.
I aimed a what-the-hell look at Casey. “Why would you go and say something like that?”
Sure, I’d kept my distance. But I didn’t mean for him to think it was because I didn’t like him. I was truly happy with the friendship we’d formed, and impressed with the guy I’d discovered under all that swagger.
I turned to Zac, hoping he wasn’t actually insulted. “Tolerate is the wrong word. So is hate, for that matter. I think you and I have always just had… differing goals for how we think our evenings should go.”
His mouth gaped. “You think I’m a slut.”
Simon laughed out, “Who are you kidding, sitting there all hurt? You love when people think you’re a slut.”
“No…” I answered. “I don’t think that. I—”
“I thought you were an angel.”
That is not as complimentary as it may have seemed. “The Angels” were a self-named assemblage of hockey groupies that had been coming to this bar for years.
“You thought I was one of the Angels?”
Zac stared blankly at me for a second too long, then let out with an uneasy laugh. “Well, you were wearing that tight shirt and those sexy boots. Why wouldn’t I have thought you were a groupie?” He chuckled again as he added, “But then you got so offended when I put the moves on, I figured out pretty quickly that I read you wrong, and changed up my M.O. There I was, showing you my softer, chewy-nougat insides, and it turned out you were off-limits anyway.”
