Chapter 10

It's ten when we finally make it to the bar.

The press was ready and waiting to take pictures as we arrived which really pissed me off and raised my anxiety levels through the roof. The Scorpions always try to keep their whereabouts private, especially when we head on away tours. But lately, the media has been one step ahead, particularly these last six months, and I've never seen it as bad as tonight. Once again, the cynical side of me can't help but align the timeline with the moment Amie walked into Zach's life. With her job as an influencer, she travels a lot and, sometimes, she'll meet Zach on away games, and she's never alone, often bringing an entourage of bunnies with her. Some of the guys, like Jensen, are welcoming, but I don't like it. Thankfully, Amie isn't here tonight, but that doesn't mean Zach hasn't told her where we're staying. Bringing it up with him though would be like a red rag to a bull, and I've got no firm proof of her antics, only my suspicions.

"Nice to see you, Jon, and even nicer to turn you over like we did tonight." Trent nudges my shoulder and winks.

"Yeah, the quicker tonight evaporates from my memory the better. Speaking of which, you want another?" I knock my glass against his empty one.

"Why not, man, cheers."

I turn back to the barman, who heads straight my way.

"You bought the whole team with you?" Trent asks, casting his eye across the room and chuckling.

"Yeah, funny enough, they all share my need to drink."

His chuckle morphs into full laughter as we walk toward a booth filled with his teammates. Setting my glass down, I perch on the end of the bench and nod at the guys, some whose faces I know, while others are newer trades.

"Why don't you head back to Colorado, Jon, play out your final years with the Kings? Get back to playing for a real team."

I don't recognize the guy who speaks up other than I know he's a defenseman who boarded me hard on more than one occasion tonight. His comment is in jest, but I don't like his disconcerting reference to the end of my career.

I take a deep swig of beer to gather my thoughts and work on a light tone for my reply. "Plenty of time in me yet, and ample to kick your rookie ass."

He snorts along with a couple of head shakes from the other guys, but it's lighthearted in nature.

We sit for a while longer, and I laugh when I catch Jessie and Jensen grinding up against two girls on the dance floor. From the angle I have, they may as well be fucking, one girl is bent fully forward, ass pressed up against Jensen's groin while he firmly grips her hips. Christ. A smile breaks across my face, and, for the first time in days, I feel my shoulders drop and some tension start to ease.

I wish I could say the feeling lasted more than a minute though because, without warning, I'm overwhelmed with strong perfume when a half-naked brunette perches herself on my lap. She came out of nowhere—one minute I'm smiling and catching up with Trent, the next I'm playing host to a girl who can't be older than twenty-one. She takes a sip of her Cosmo, which I instantly clock.

I only want one Cosmo-drinking girl on my lap, and this isn't her.

I panic. I don't like how this looks, but what do I do, stand up and let the tipsy girl fall to the floor? Push her off and look like an even bigger asshole? I'd say she shouldn't be touching me without consent, but pretty much every person in this bar knows I've never complained about a smoking hot girl touching me before. And even though she is an absolute smoke show, the thought of touching her or any other girl aside from one rolls my stomach.

"Hey, baby, it's been a while since we've seen you around these parts. Well played tonight."

Huh, she clearly knows nothing about hockey since tonight was anything but well played. I decide the only way to get her off me is to be polite. Without wasting another second, I lean down to speak into her ear to kindly ask her to get the fuck off my lap. But she clearly misses the deep frown burrowed between my brows, and as I lean toward her, she fucking kisses me. Full-on, right on the lips. She grabs my head in a vice grip and twists her body around on my lap before moaning into my mouth, trying to part my lips with her tongue. I put my hands up to protest but end up brushing her goddamn breasts as I try to get her off me. I need out of this fucked-up situation ASAP.

Rising to my feet, she still clings to me like a fucking koala. This isn't working. So, with a little more force, I manage to untangle her arms and release myself from her grasp, stepping back as quickly as I can. But the panic only rises further, and my brain goes into overdrive.

Shit.

Shit.

Shit.

Technically I've done nothing wrong, but I"ve been in this game long enough to know pictures of this will be on the internet within minutes and only the most damning images find their way onto social media.

My panic turns to anger as I whip around to face the girl who just sent my life up in smoke. "What the fuck? Who said you could kiss me? Sit on my lap? Touch me?"

She looks genuinely shell-shocked but still steps toward me once again.

I take another stride back in response, hands up and out in front of me. "That wasn't cool. I have a fucking girlfriend." The words leave my mouth before I can filter them. Her actions weren't cool, but the rest is an outright lie. Felicity isn't even close to being my girlfriend. We've barely spoken since she practically ran out my door on Friday. Not that I haven't wanted to speak to her. Everyday. Every goddamn minute. I've just been afraid to go too hard too soon with her and scare her off.

"Well, you sure kept it quiet. The internet says you"re single, and anyway, who cares, she knows you're a player."

I shake my head, a futile feeling crushing my chest. The boys in the booth including Trent are all gawking, but as I look around at the rest of the bar, thankfully everyone else is too distracted to notice, including Jensen and Jessie, who are still on the dance floor getting it on.

A wave of relief washes over me but instantly crashes down when I see Koala Girl's friend standing about twenty feet away. Fucking filming. Her phone is outstretched on her arm, her mouth gaping open as she shakes her head, but I don't miss the excitable look on her face like she's about to cash in on her viral prize.

In an instant, I'm striding over to her, and out of the corner of my eye, I see Trent shoot up from the booth, tearing after me. "Jon, cool it, bro. It's okay."

Swiveling around, a misty red haze clouds my vision. "No, it's not fucking okay," I drawl back at him, throwing my arms in the air. "I'm supposed to be seeing someone. Well, dating someone." My hands fly to the back of my neck, and I grip hard, my frustration unbearable as I desperately try to describe what I have with Felicity, which right now is nothing, but at the same time feels like everything. "Honestly, I don't know what it is, but it's probably fucked now because these girls?—"

I spin back around pointing to…no one. Nothing. Because they've gone. High-tailed their way out of the bar in the split second I turned my back. They must have grabbed their shit and ran out taking their footage, and my fucking sanity, with them.

There's nothing better than a sunny Sunday morning, especially one where you can lie in bed, basking in the sunlight as it streams through your blinds.

This is not one of those Sunday mornings.

I'm hungover, and let's just say hangovers are not as forgiving now I'm in my late thirties—this one in particular is sent from the devil himself. It's Kate and my co-worker Taylor's fault, as they came over last night for wine and movies, with the ratio quickly tipping in wine's favor. Taylor works in the admin department keeping us all in check. She's only twenty-six, making her the baby of our trio, but she can drink me under the table, as I discovered last night. My mouth feels like the bottom of a parrot's cage. I need to get up, brush my teeth, and formulate an anti-hangover strategy.

Fighting through the fuzziness of my brain, I hear a ping and creak open an eyelid to see my phone screen lit up. I fling an arm to the side and grab it from the nightstand, ripping it from the charging cable.

Kate

Gah! Did I go ten rounds with Mike Tyson last night?

Me

If this message barely makes sense, it's because I only have the use of three fingers and one eye. Never again.

Ha! I guess no booze at lunch.

No booze again. Period.

Fine by me. See you later, XOXO

Battling my body to the bathroom, I brush my teeth and throw my straggly hair into a messy bun and pad into the kitchen. The display of empty wine bottles on the counter acts as an unwelcome reminder of last night's handiwork and another wave of nausea rolls through my stomach. Breakfast is what I need, starting with coffee.

Ten minutes later I'm perched on a barstool armed with bacon, waffles, syrup, and my second mug of black coffee. My stomach instantly wants to reject everything, but I fight through. I only have myself to blame, and that's the worst part of a hangover—knowing it"s self-inflicted.

Despite my pain this morning, last night did provide a welcome distraction from my repetitive, bordering on obsessive, thoughts of Jon. I've replayed that moment on the gym bench over and over, the way he casually straddled it and shifted his body toward mine, leaning in to wipe my forehead. His gentle touch felt like a branding iron, and the way his eyes searched mine…my thighs pinch together as I recall it all. I've never been touched so tenderly and to be honest, it freaked me out. My body raged with my head, wanting to lean forward and let him kiss me, take me, have his way with me. But I panicked and practically ran out of his apartment. Since then, I've pretty much had radio silence aside from him adding me on social media and liking a few of my posts. We've exchanged a few texts, but I feel like he's backing off.

But that's what I want, right?

It might be the remnants of the wine or maybe my heart outmaneuvering my head but fuck it. I pick up my phone and decide no harm in dropping him a quick message. I know they got beaten down last night so maybe I can make him smile.

Me

Hey. Hope Colorado is treating you okay. Sorry about last night's result.

I hit send and stare down at the screen, the anticipation of a reply not sitting well with my breakfast and hangover.

A minute or so later three dots appear indicating he's typing a response. Christ, I'm giddy at three dots; get a grip, Felicity. But just as soon as they appear, they disappear again. They come back once more, but no reply surfaces. I busy myself clearing away, but after another five minutes, there's still no message. I won't lie, it's kind of disappointing, but perhaps he's busy. Intrigue gets the better of me though, and before I know it, I'm bringing up his socials.

It's hard to describe what I feel when my IG news feed opens. The nausea I felt this morning is dwarfed by the wretched feeling taking hold in the pit of my stomach. Post upon post, image after image, video after video of Jon making out with a gorgeous brunette, probably young enough to be my daughter. Some are of her on his lap, Jon leaning down to talk in her ear, others of her straddling him as they kiss, intensely. But it's the footage of her slender legs wrapped around his waist as he's standing and gripping her thighs tightly that breaks me. Only minutes ago, I messaged him, opening the door to my heart ever so slightly. Well, now I know why I haven't received a response. He's probably shacked up in some hotel with her. I guess I was right when I presumed he was too busy to reply.

My upset is happily replaced with pure rage. I can't believe I nearly fell for his antics and better yet, was actually tempted to fall into bed with this guy. To become another notch on his bedpost.

Stupid girl.

I snatch my phone back up, never wanting to see those images again, and hastily deactivate every social media account I can think of. I need those pictures out of my life, just like I do Jon Morgan.