“You’re married,” I state the obvious.
She laughs. The sound rips like a talon shredding the fabric of my being.
“You’re too old,” I say, the words harsh and unsympathetic. The statement is also obvious, but it hits the open sore in her heart with cruel accuracy and draws blood. Her jaw goes slack and her face turns white, shocked at my bold cruelty, but only for a moment before turning ugly.
In a quick strong move—because I’m a fucking professional athlete and I can—I extricate myself from her hold and slip away. Turning my back on her, I walk off the dance floor and head straight for the bar, wondering if it’s too early to leave this event. Wondering if the most ungracious letdown of all time is going to get me in trouble.
Coach is watching and I turn away from him. I have no idea what Sherry Boylston did after I left her stranded on the floor, but no way am I turning to look. Rejoining Aiden, my wingman and teammate, for a drink, I smile at the gorgeous bartender. Since the trio of lovelies we were talking to earlier are nowhere in sight, I consider sweet talking her into my bed tonight. I order a glass of Maker’s Mark, my new favorite bourbon.
“What’s up?” Aiden says. “I saw you dancing close with Sherry. I’d have bet on you to win that prize for the night.”
I scoff. “You can have her.”
He raises his brows. “I’ll take her. I hear she’s hot to trot.”
The blue-eyed bartender gives me a smile with my drink, a welcome distraction from Aiden’s sudden interest in the bitch I want nothing to do with.
“You know she’s married, right?” I say to him. “Besides, you can do better than that.”
He sighs. “I suppose you’re right.” He pauses. “But sheishot.”
“In a super obvious old-lady way.” I can’t help myself.
“She ain’t that old.” He scrutinizes me.
“She reminds me of my mother.” I admit. But that’s all I’m admitting to.
“Really? You’ll have to invite your mom to town for a visit.”
“Shut the fuck up.” My voice a growl, I slam my drink down on the bar.
Aiden puts up his hands. “Sorry—that was out of line. You’re right. I didn’t mean it seriously. Joking. Honest to God.” He does the sign of the cross as if he’s religious and I know for a fucking fact he’s not. It’s only a relic of his Catholic upbringing. That’s how well I know Aiden.
Settling down, I say, “I know. It’s okay. I’m touchy tonight.”
“What put you in a bad mood? You were happy as shit ten minutes ago. You’re playing great. Your goals against is awesome. You’ve had two fucking shut-outs already.”
Mrs. Sherry Boylston, along with digging through the smelly garbage heap of emotions when I think about my mother, is the reason for my mood. I’ve been able to forget about her and home since I left. I’m normally a fun, upbeat guy these days, riding well above where I came from.
I shrug. Then I smile, determined to shove everything back under the carpet of denial where it belongs.
But as Sherry circles in our direction, passing by where we stand at the bar, she gives me a chilling look, filled with menace, the kind that promises retribution. Returning her look with a blank, polite smile, I’m not intimidated.
Maybe I should have been.