3. Bristol

Chapter 3

Bristol

"This is where the Speed hangs out post-game?" I slowly scanned the karaoke bar, Pipes, finding that hard to believe.

It was kitschy, with a neon sign hanging on the wall behind a wooden stage that spelled out the bar's name in all caps, with a microphone instead of an "I" in Pipes. There were buckets of shelled peanuts on every table; the broken pieces of discarded shells lay littered across the floor. I suppose we were close enough to Nashville that this kind of thing appealed to people in the area, but hockey players?

Granted, I was used to the makeshift bar and dance floor in the basement of Nix's house parties, but that was because he was a younger player. While on his entry-level contract, he didn't have the cash to drop at the Comets' post-game hangout of choice, Spades, an upscale downtown Hartford nightclub.

That right there should be enough to prove that even though I was a puck bunny, I wasn't a gold digger. It was never about the money for me. It was always more about the game and the lifestyle of players and their families. There was a camaraderie that came with being the significant other of a hockey player. They became one big family.

Not that you were a part of that during your three years with Nix because he refused to name you as his official girlfriend.

No. I shook my head. He didn't belong here.

Dakota tugged my arm to a table near the stage. "I know, it's kinda cheesy, but the guys here like to keep it lowkey. Plus, get them drunk and on that stage? They would go viral on social media like that." She snapped her fingers. "But thankfully, the regulars know enough to put their phones away. Everyone just has a good time hanging out and cutting loose."

Sitting across from her at a table while Braxton went to the bar to grab our first round of drinks, I plucked a peanut from the bucket. "Sounds like you really like it here."

She reached over to clasp my hand. "I do. But it'll be so much better now that you're here too."

Fuck. I was not going to cry tonight. I'd done enough of that already.

Stupid Nix.

This was my fresh start, and I was determined to be upbeat about it.

A new city and a new Bristol.

Braxton lowered three drinks onto the table—a bottle of beer for himself, a margarita for Dakota, and a whiskey neat for me. Bringing the lowball glass to my lips, I threw the drink straight down my throat without blinking or coughing, before raising my hand and signaling to a passing waitress that I needed another.

Yeah, this girl's daddy had taught her how to shoot whiskey; it was more than needed tonight.

Music blared over strategically placed speakers, accompanied by the vocal stylings of the intoxicated man on stage. His buddies were cheering him on from a table near the back, and I couldn't help but laugh at the spectacle.

Okay, maybe I could see how this would be a fun way for the players to unwind after a game.

"You know who would love this place?" Dakota said before answering her own question. "Hannah."

Hannah Berg—formerly Moreau—was the daughter of Ace Moreau, the Connecticut Comets' head coach and former three-time league champion. She was also married to Cal Berg, star defenseman for the Comets before his retirement. Now, he did on-air analysis for their in-house network. I guess that made him my colleague. Maybe? I wasn't sure how it worked between broadcast journalism and print.

For over a decade, Hannah had been the anthem singer for the Comets. That girl could sing . To further that point, she recently began recording music in the offseason—since she also worked for the team as their travel coordinator, accompanying them on the road—and was getting interest from high-level execs in the industry. She not only had the voice; she had the look of a pop star, and was arguably the most stunning woman I'd had the pleasure of meeting in real life. I knew she would be a smashing success if she actively pursued a career in music.

"We should bring them here when they come to town next. You two could do a duet!"

Dakota's suggestion had me violently shaking my head. "Nope. Never gonna happen. She's so good that I'm too self-conscious to sing in the shower anymore. No way am I performing with her in the room."

Smirking, she teased, "You say that now, but I know you. After enough whiskeys, you'll be dancing on top of tables, not caring what anyone thinks. "

Braxton chimed in, "Dancing on tables would be tame compared to some of the drunken acts we've seen Bristol perform."

My eyes bulged, and I protested, "Hey!"

He held his hands up. "It's true."

Frowning, I grumbled, "Yeah, well, there's a new Bristol in town. A responsible, career Bristol." Unfortunately, that was the moment the waitress returned with my second whiskey of the night in less than half an hour. Dakota and Braxton tried and failed to hold back their laughter, and I rolled my eyes, lifting the glass and allowing the amber liquor to scorch a path down my throat. "Okay, starting tomorrow."

Tomorrow, the first day of training camp for the Speed, was designated as media day. It would be my first time gaining access to the players and staff, and I could admit I was nervous. This job was a big deal, and I wanted to show that I was more than a token female on a sports staff.

My best friend's blue eyes twinkled at my mention of what was coming the following day. "Aw, it's like I'm sending my kids off to their first day of school." She reached up and pinched Braxton's cheek as if he were a child. "I'm gonna miss you guys when you head out on the road."

Braxton wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her close to his side and kissing the top of her head. Seriously, those two were disgustingly sweet together. "Don't lie, Firefly. You'll be writing up a storm and won't even notice we're gone."

A grin curved on her lips, and she raised a single hand. "Guilty. Maybe I can have Hannah put a bug in the commissioner's ear about extending road trips so that Eastern Conference teams play the entire West Coast in one trip and vice versa. Cut down on the CO2 emissions with all the back and forth. She has him on speed dial, right?"

"Do you hear this girl?" Braxton said to me in disbelief. "Talking about the league commissioner? My, how far she's come. "

"You'd never believe that, two years ago, she didn't even know what a slap shot was," I agreed.

Dakota's previous aversion to all things sports had been personal. Not only was she watching Nix use me, but her dad was a football player who had cheated on her mom before leaving them broke. She assumed all athletes were womanizing assholes and wanted nothing to do with them or the games they played.

But the rise of hockey romance changed all that.

I'd practically begged her to dip her toes into one of the fastest-growing subgenres in her field, and she agreed, unable to deny how high the demand was. There was only one problem: by shutting out sports for most of her life, she knew nothing about them.

Now, you'd never know that she hadn't grown up like I had, attending as many games as possible.

Dakota nudged Braxton with an elbow while shooting me a playful wink. "Well, I can't be hanging in the family box with the other WAGs and not know what's going on." WAGs was an acronym for the wives and girlfriends of players.

"Eh." I held my hand parallel to the table, wavering it a bit. "Plenty of significant others don't know about the game."

"Usually, only the new ones," she countered. "And they're eager to learn."

Eyeing her carefully, I asked, "The Speed ladies treating you right?"

Dakota had kept her circle small over the years. Before Braxton stepped into her life, I was her only friend—she was a verified bookworm. I knew how catty women could be, so wanted to ensure she wasn't being bullied.

She sighed, but the smile didn't slip from her face. "They don't hold a candle to the Comets ladies, but I have no complaints. "

The Comets WAGs not only consisted of Hannah Berg but also Natalie Slate, Jaxon's wife and Dakota's future sister-in-law. They'd pulled in Benji Mason's—formerly Mills—partner and formed a tight-knit little girl gang that also included Natalie's ex-in-laws, who happened to be foreign royals.

That girl gang was an exclusive club. Their girls' nights were the stuff of legends. I had always hoped that one day I might be granted entry, but alas, Dakota had found herself on the inside in my stead.

It didn't matter anymore. That dream was dead.

A flash of motion caught my eye, and I noticed Braxton slipping his phone out of his pocket for no less than the fifth time since we sat down.

"Got a hot date later?" I teased, startling him enough to look up.

"No." He shook his head, trying to look innocent. "Just checking emails."

I knew he was full of shit and called him on it. "You must be the ultimate speed reader, then. A quick glance, and you can scan an entire email before shoving the phone back inside your pocket?"

He glanced at Dakota for help, but she shrugged, saying, "You're on your own."

I leveled him with a glare. "I said no players tonight, Braxton."

"I didn't invite any players!" he protested.

"Then who are you expecting to get a message from?" I challenged.

"No one."

"Sure." I nodded my head slowly. "And the Pope's not Catholic."

"I swear, Bristol. No players have been invited tonight."

Braxton was a good guy; I knew he was only trying to help. I was sure he thought he had the perfect guy for me, someone who would make Nix fade into a distant memory.

But I'd come here to do a job and not the kind that required a girl to get down on her knees .

I needed another whiskey.

I was at the optimal level of buzzed to dare to approach the stage when Braxton and Dakota decided to call it a night. They were my ride, but I brushed off their concerns about leaving me there by promising I would order a car from a rideshare app.

Dakota gave me a doubtful expression when I assured her I would be fine alone. I was well aware that I didn't have the best record when intoxicated. In college, she'd insisted on affixing a tracking tag to my clothing when I went out to party. I had a bad habit of calling her the following day, not knowing where I was.

Hugging her, I shooed the happy couple to the door. Drinking made me horny, and I didn't need my bestie and her boyfriend cockblocking me tonight.

Racking my brain, I knew there was some saying about getting over a man by getting under a new one. Seemed like solid logic. A good fuck could make you forget your own name.

Not that I‘d come out tonight looking to get laid, but I might be persuaded if the opportunity arose.

However, the odds of a man approaching me significantly decreased the second I stepped up to the microphone.

Even a little tipsy, I knew I was tone-deaf. I couldn't carry a tune to save my life, which was why I had been so adamant that Hannah would never witness me singing .

Typing my selection into the wall-mounted touchscreen, I took a cleansing breath, allowing my body to sway as the first notes of the song filtered from the speakers. This first one was a giant middle finger to Nix, a little country number about beating the shit out of a cheater's car. I let all the rage out while I belted out the words to a thinning crowd inside the bar. I didn't need an audience. Hell, it was probably better that I didn't have one. This was for me. It was cathartic, releasing the past.

When no one stepped up after I finished that first song, I chose another. And another. Until it was nearing closing time, and I knew I'd have to call for a ride home soon.

That was when I saw him through my slightly blurred vision.

A man had taken a seat front and center at the closest table to the stage, which also happened to be where I'd left my latest glass of whiskey, sipping on it between sets.

I giggled inside my head.

Listen to me talking about sets. Like I'm some headliner instead of tipsy Bristol sounding like a bag of dying cats.

The intensity of his green stare had me stumbling back a step as I continued to sing the words to a song I had memorized, eliminating the need for the prompter screen.

His attention was locked on me, eyes roving my body with a hungry gaze as his tongue darted out to lick his lips. When my eyes dipped to track the move, I noticed he was mouthing the words to the song I was singing.

The liquor in my bloodstream already had my cheeks flushed, but the way he looked at me made heat pool between my thighs, and I shimmied my hips a little more, seeking the fiction of the seam of my tight jeans.

There was no question he was interested, and through heavy-lidded eyes, I couldn't deny he was attractive. A little older, perhaps, but not middle-aged. I could barely make out the tiniest lines around the corners of his eyes in the dim lighting. His messy dark brown hair hung over his forehead, drawing more focus to those deep green eyes. And his short beard had me itching to feel it beneath my palms—or rather, between my legs.

It was apparent he took care of his body—muscles bunched beneath his gray T-shirt as he leaned forward, placing both forearms on his thighs, listening intently to my subpar performance. And those thighs? Damn, they were thick. I could practically feel their strength aiding his thrusts as he pounded into me from behind, from above—hell, I didn't care about the position so long as he dominated me. It sure looked like he was up to the task.

As the song ended, I decided instantly that it would be my last of the evening.

Mr. Green Eyes might just be the palate cleanser I so desperately needed. It was long past time to remove the bad taste Nix had left in my mouth.