“Emory,” Jett says again, this time very softly but there’s incredible command there. “It’s a yes or no type of answer.”
My eyes slide to Jenna. She doesn’t know what his side of the conversation has been but she reads me well. Her look says, Don’t be a dumbass and screw this up.
It jolts me back where I need to be. A place where I can hope for a better future. “The answer is yes, of course. We’d love that.”
I try to ignore the soft sigh of relief I hear over the line, and it’s in this moment that I know Jett knows I’m having doubts.
I don’t want that to be a secret from him. He means too much for me to not be plain spoken about how I think Shane has managed to fuck up all my feelings.
It’s a conversation we’ll have another time though.
For now, I’m going to be in the moment with him. I speak a very real truth, no matter how frayed everything else feels. “I miss you.”
I can hear the smile in his voice. “I miss you, too.”
“Play great tonight.”
“I will,” he assures me and we disconnect.
I stare at my phone for a moment, but it’s Jenna that brings me back to reality.
“Don’t fuck this up with him,” she says, her voice almost pleading. “He’s a good man.”
“I know he is.” And more than anything, I really want to see what this can be. I want to move past my insecurities. “I promise.”
That seems to satisfy her because she picks up her pizza and starts eating again. Mine remains ignored because I’m just not hungry anymore.
My mind is still racing, trying to process all my feelings.
CHAPTER 24
Jett
This is new, and I’m not sure I like it.
I should be riding high tonight.
We fucking creamed the L.A. Demons, which is always a big deal for our team, and not necessarily because they’re a big team rival.
Rather, there’s bad blood since about this time last year their defenseman, Lars Nilsson, provoked a fight with Tacker, mocking the death of Tacker’s fiancée when the plane he was flying crashed.
Tacker beat the crap out of him and earned a ten-game suspension.
Since then, every time we step foot out on the ice against this team, tensions are high. Any little action by their team that could be deemed beyond fair play is met with retaliation. Check out the stats… I guarantee you this is the team we’re most penalized against, and I bet the same is true for them.
At any rate, we walked away gloating over our 4-1 victory. The team plane isn’t coming back until tomorrow morning, so most of the guys went out for a few drinks.
I chose to stay back in the room, for no reason other than I was honestly tired as shit. I played a hard game tonight, a whopping twenty-two minutes of ice time where I went all out.
Not that I don’t go all out at every game, but for some reason, I was just overly driven tonight. My legs were pumping harder, my determination fueling me to go faster. I’d like to think it was the fact we were playing to win against that fucknut Lars Nilsson but deep down, I knew my adrenaline was being fueled by worries over Emory.
I know she’s plagued hard by them, and I am too.
I’m also feeling a bit uncertain as to how her worries are going to affect what we’ve become, and there’s no doubt they will. This shit with Shane has been a burden on her, and she’s a woman who likes to handle shit on her own.
She’s had no choice but to and I know she doesn’t like depending on others.
While I hate my own personal shit pushed me harder out on the ice, it made for a great game. I got a goal and two assists and coupled with everything else, I was ready for bed by the time we returned to the hotel.
Except, after I got settled in and turned on the TV for a little background noise to fall asleep to, I couldn’t fucking sleep. While my body may have been done for the evening, my mind was in overdrive.
It’s why I’m entering the hotel restaurant and bar, now regretting not going out with the guys. But I’m fine with sitting by myself and having a drink or two, which will help numb the jumbled thoughts so I can sleep.
I’m thinking bourbon will do the trick.
It’s late and the restaurant is empty as I step into it from the hotel lobby. To the right is the bar which is one long unit that holds about fifteen barstools, while booths on the half wall behind that separate the area from the main restaurant. There’s a couple at one end of the bar with their heads bent close together in intimate conversation. It’s something Emory and I have done and I know how easy it is to get focused in on someone, lost to everything else.
I don’t sit on the opposite end, taking the very middle stool, which also happens to be right in front of the lone bartender. I can see there’s absolutely no recognition as to who I am, and that’s not unusual. Not everyone’s a hockey fan, but this is Los Angeles. They have two hockey teams and I wouldn’t expect one of their fans to know the faces of the other teams players unless they were the top echelon like a Bishop or a Tacker.
Doesn’t hurt my feelings at all and in fact, I like it. There’s something to be said for the hoopla that surrounds our appearances at The Sneaky Saguaro and the adulation that comes with it. But more often than not, I prefer not to be recognized so I can just be Jett Olsson the person, not the hockey player.
“What can I get you?” the bartender asks dully. That means he’s not a conversationalist, which I’m also thankful for. ESPN is up on one of the TV’s with subtitles and I’ll be happy to watch that.
“Let me get something on draft—I don’t care which—and a shot of Jack,” I tell him. I’m not a picky connoisseur of alcohol, and I like to try different beers. But Jack Daniels is my go-to when I want bourbon.
Efficiently, the beer is poured with minimal foam head and sat before me. Next comes a shot glass and the bartender pours it with flourish.
I slide my credit card across the bar and say, “Start a tab but don’t go anywhere just yet.”
The bartender watches as I pick up the shot of Jack, pour it easily down the back of my throat, and set it back down on the bar. I use my fingertips to push it toward him. “Hit me again.”
The bartender does as asked, but I don’t shoot this one down right away. The first one was just to wet my gullet and I doubt I’ll have another one after this, but for now, it’s there for when I want it.
I pick up the pint glass of pale colored beer, not even having bothered to ask what it is, and take a tiny sip as my gaze lifts to the TV.
Before it gets to the TV, it skims the mirror behind the bar and I see the reflection of someone I recognize in the booth behind me.
Twisting my neck, I look over my shoulder and see Riggs sitting there. He has a half empty glass of beer before him and he’s surfing on his phone.
Interesting opportunity here. Riggs, our proverbial loner, who has shown slight signs of opening up.
And now here he is, drinking alone in a bar, and well… so am I. I know he’d probably prefer me to leave him alone, but I’ve never really been all that respectful of a person’s space when I believe they shouldn’t be closed off to me. Riggs has some growth to do to be a full member of this team and it’s my duty to poke at his edges a bit.