8. Tom

Chapter 8

Tom

I watched Ally slip away, a bitter cocktail of anger, frustration, and longing churning inside me. Every muscle in my body tensed as I replayed our conversation, her accusations ringing in my ears. She thought I used her? The idea gnawed at me, made my blood boil. What the hell had Nick said to her?

Fuck.

The sound of applause yanked me back to the present. The award show was wrapping up. I grabbed my trophy with a clenched jaw and scanned the room for an escape route. I never wanted to come to this damn event in the first place, and now... now, I didn't know what the hell I wanted.

I ducked through a side door, hoping to avoid more small talk and questions from journalists. The hallway was mercifully empty, a sanctuary from the buzzing crowd inside. As I strode toward the exit, my mind kept circling back to Ally. Her eyes had been so full of hurt and accusation, and it killed me to see her like that.

What had happened between us was more than just a fling, at least for me. But seeing her tonight brought all those feelings rushing back—the guilt, the longing, the need to protect her even if she didn't want my protection.

I shoved open the door to the parking lot and breathed in the cool night air. It did little to calm me down. My thoughts were a mess of tangled emotions—memories of that night we shared, the way she looked at me tonight, and Nick's face flashing in my mind like a warning sign.

I couldn't help but wonder if he had poisoned her against me somehow. It wouldn't be out of character for him; our relationship was already strained enough without dragging Ally into it.

I leaned against my car, staring at the trophy in my hand. It felt like a hollow victory. Winning awards meant nothing if I couldn't get my personal life together.

Damn it all.

I couldn't leave things like this. I needed to make it right, at least enough so she wouldn't think I was just some bastard using her. My mind raced as I got into my car, the engine roaring to life beneath me. The drive back to campus felt like a blur, the streetlights flashing by in a dizzying pattern that matched the chaos in my head.

When I finally parked outside the dorm building, I sat there, staring at it. What the hell was I doing here? Why her? Why did I even care? She was going to graduate in a few weeks, and then she'd be out of my life for good. So why couldn't I just let this go?

Why the fuck did I care after all this time?

It didn't make any sense.

I leaned back in my seat, gripping the steering wheel until my knuckles turned white. The memories of our time together came flooding back—her laughter, the way she looked at me like I was more than just a failed hockey player or a tough coach. It had been different with her, real in a way that scared me.

But now... now she thought I used her, and that cut deeper than any injury I'd ever sustained on the ice.

I glanced up at the dorm building again, its windows glowing with the soft light of late-night studying or whatever college kids did these days. Ally was probably inside, maybe even still fuming from our earlier encounter.

I had no idea what I'd say to her if she came down. Or maybe I needed to go up. All I knew was that I needed to see her again, to explain myself somehow. Even if it changed nothing between us, even if she walked away and never looked back.

With a heavy sigh, I stepped out of the car and made my way to the entrance. The night air was crisp and biting, a stark contrast to the heat simmering inside me.

As I stood there, contemplating whether to go in or not, my mind kept replaying our last conversation—the hurt in her eyes, the accusations in her voice.

I couldn't leave it like that. Not with her.

I needed to make this right.

I slammed the locker room door behind me, the echo of our defeat still ringing in my ears. Crestwood's first major loss, and against a team we should have steamrolled. My fists clenched involuntarily, and I could feel the veins in my neck bulging with frustration.

The text buzzed on my phone, pulling my attention from the awards ceremony’s cacophony.

Janet, again.

Nick's publicist needs more money. The twat he was seeing broke up with him, and he's a mess. Handle it.

My jaw tightened as I read the message. Nick had been in the NHL for three years, yet not once had he invited me to watch a game. Now, they pestered me for money, treating me like an ATM rather than his father.

Didn't he get some fancy contract? Why the fuck did he need my money?

"Goddamn it," I muttered under my breath. The kids had skated like they were on a leisurely Sunday stroll. No drive, no fire. Just a pathetic performance that made me question every drill I'd put them through.

And Nick? Fuck, so a girl broke up with him. Tough shit.

I needed to get out of there, away from the campus and its reminders of tonight's fiasco. A drink wouldn't fix everything, but it might dull the edges long enough for me to think straight. I grabbed my jacket and headed for my car, leaving the disappointment of the rink behind.

I drove aimlessly for a while, letting the hum of the engine drown out my thoughts. Eventually, I found myself at a bar I'd never been to before—The Rusty Anchor. It was far enough from campus that I wouldn't run into anyone I knew. Just what I needed.

The place had a certain grit to it, with worn wooden floors and dim lighting that cast long shadows across the room. The bar itself was made of old oak, its surface polished smooth by years of elbows and spilled drinks. A jukebox in the corner played classic rock tunes that added to the rugged ambiance.

I took a seat at the bar and ordered a whiskey neat. The bartender, a grizzled man with a beard that looked like it hadn't seen a razor in years, poured me a generous measure without any small talk. Just how I liked it.

As I nursed my drink, I scanned the room. The crowd was a mix of locals—blue-collar types unwinding after a long day of work. It was exactly the kind of place where no one would ask questions or give a damn about who you were.

Then I saw her—a woman sitting alone at the far end of the bar. She had an air of confidence about her, with dark hair that fell in loose waves around her shoulders and eyes that seemed to pierce through the dim light. She wasn't flashy, but there was something about her that drew me in.

I finished my drink and ordered another before making my way over to her. She glanced up as I approached, her expression unreadable but not unwelcoming.

"Is this seat taken?" I asked, my voice steady despite the turmoil inside me.

She shrugged, a small smile playing on her lips. "I have a boyfriend."

"Good for you," I shot back, unable to hide my irritation. "Just looking for a seat, not a relationship."

Soft laughter tinkled in my ears from behind me. I turned, narrowing my eyes as I found the source—a redhead with a rag in her hand, cleaning the table nearby. She had striking features, with freckles dusting her nose and cheeks. Her eyes sparkled with amusement as she wiped down the counter.

Fucking stunning.

"And what's so funny?" I demanded, unable to keep the edge out of my voice.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she said, her voice light as she continued wiping down the counter.

"No," I insisted, leaning against the bar. "Tell me."

She glanced at the woman who had just dismissed me and scampered off and then back at me. "That woman has been coming here for the last three nights," she explained, a knowing smile playing on her lips. "Latching onto any guy in a business suit with cufflinks." She eyed my leather jacket. "I guess she doesn't like your leather jacket."

I smirked despite myself. "Guess not everyone appreciates quality leather."

"Clearly," she said with a chuckle, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Though I have to say, it’s refreshing to see someone not dressed like they walked out of a corporate catalog."

"Glad to provide some variety," I replied, feeling an unexpected lightness in her presence.

"Variety is good," she said, giving the counter one last wipe before tossing the rag over her shoulder. "Especially in this place. It gets... repetitive."

"Tell me about it," I said, glancing around at the worn wooden floors and dim lighting. "First time here?"

"First time working here," she corrected. "Needed something different myself."

"And this is what you chose?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.

She shrugged. "It pays the bills and offers decent people-watching."

I nodded slowly. "Yeah, I can see that."

We fell into an easy silence for a moment before she broke it again.

"So, what brings you here tonight? You don’t seem like the regular type."

I took another sip of my drink, considering how much to reveal. “Rough night at work,” I finally said.

Her eyes softened slightly. “I get that. Sometimes it’s good to just escape for a bit.”

“Yeah,” I agreed quietly. “Sometimes it is.”

I watched her as she moved around the bar, her black pants hugging her legs just right, and a simple white shirt that contrasted with her auburn hair. The way she moved was efficient, yet there was a grace to it—like she was dancing through a routine she'd perfected over countless nights.

"You know," she drawled, catching my eye as she reached for another rag. "If you're so fascinated by what I do, I can teach you. I will warn you, though. Wiping down a bar takes precision."

"Does it now?" I asked, amused despite myself.

"Absolutely," she said with a mock-serious nod. "It's an art form. You need the right amount of pressure and the perfect circular motion. Otherwise, you just end up smearing everything around."

"I think I can handle it," I replied, leaning against the bar with a smirk. "I've dealt with worse."

She laughed, a genuine sound that cut through the haze of whiskey in my mind. "Oh really? Like what?"

"Like trying to get a bunch of college kids to skate like they actually care about winning," I said, the frustration from earlier creeping back into my voice.

"Ah, so you're a coach," she said, her eyes lighting up with interest. "That explains the intense vibe."

"Intense?" I raised an eyebrow.

She shrugged again, tossing the rag over her shoulder and leaning against the bar across from me. "Yeah, you've got that look. Like you're always thinking three steps ahead."

"I guess that's part of the job," I admitted.

"Must be exhausting," she said thoughtfully.

"It can be," I agreed, taking another sip of my drink. "But it's worth it when they actually listen and pull off something amazing."

"And when they don't?" she asked.

I sighed, running a hand through my hair. "Then it's nights like this."

She nodded understandingly. "Well, if you ever need a break from all that intensity, you know where to find me."

"I might just take you up on that," I said, surprised by how much I meant it.

"Good," she replied with a wink. "But don't think I'm going to let you slack off on your first bartending lesson."

"I wouldn't dream of it," I said, feeling more at ease than I had in months.

The banter flowed naturally between us as we continued talking—about everything and nothing at all. For the first time in a long while, I felt a flicker of something that wasn't anger or regret.

Maybe this night wouldn't be so bad after all.

"Show me," I said, leaning against the bar with a smirk.

"Show you... what?" she asked, tilting her head in curiosity.

"How precise wiping down a bar can be," I replied, raising an eyebrow.

"Oh no," she said, shaking her head with a playful grin. "I don't show. I instruct. Come on." She waved me over.

I chuckled, pushing myself off the barstool and moving to her side. She handed me a rag and positioned herself behind me, guiding my hand with hers. Her body pressed lightly against my back, and I could feel the heat radiating from her.

"All right," she began, her voice low and close to my ear. "First, you need to apply just the right amount of pressure."

She pressed down gently on my hand, guiding it in a slow, circular motion across the bar’s surface. I followed her lead, feeling the rhythm she set.

"Like this?" I asked, trying to match her movements.

"Exactly," she murmured, her breath warm against my neck. "Keep it steady. Consistent."

Her hands were firm but soft as they moved with mine. The scent of her hair—something floral—filled my senses, and I found it hard to concentrate on anything other than the feel of her body so close to mine.

We continued wiping down the bar together, our movements synchronized. The simple task took on a new intensity with her behind me, her presence almost overwhelming.

"You're a quick learner," she said softly, her voice carrying a hint of approval.

"I've had good instruction," I replied, my voice rougher than I intended.

She laughed quietly; the sound vibrating through me. "Flattery will get you everywhere."

I turned slightly to catch a glimpse of her face, our eyes locking for a brief moment before she looked away. There was something there—something unspoken but palpable.

As we continued wiping down the bar, I couldn't ignore the growing desire within me. Her touch was both instructional and intimate, making it hard to separate the two.

"You know," she said after a moment, breaking the silence. "You're not bad at this."

"Thanks," I said, trying to keep my tone light despite the tension building between us. "I'm not bad at a lot of things."

She stepped back slightly, giving me some space, but still close enough that I could feel her presence.

"I think you've got it now," she said with a smile. "Keep practicing."

I turned to face her fully, our eyes meeting again. The connection between us was undeniable, and for a moment, everything else faded away—the frustrations of the night, the lingering anger about Nick—all of it seemed distant compared to the intensity of this moment with her.

"Thanks for the lesson," I said quietly.

"My pleasure," she replied, her eyes twinkling with amusement and something more profound.

The night had taken an unexpected turn—a turn that made me forget about all that had weighed me down just hours earlier.

"Maybe I can return the favor," I said, cocking my head to the side.

Her eyes narrowed, but she was… intrigued. Her lips curved up. "What did you have in mind?"