No, it wasn't the alcohol, not this time.
It was the fucking blow to my pride that hurt, along with the bruise I sported on the left side of my face—the same bruise that discolored and distorted the flesh of my cheek. Every time I moved, pain exploded in my face and raced along every nerve ending, from my cheek all the way down to the tips of my fingers and toes. That pain increased ten-fold when I remembered how I'd gotten the bruise.
I'd had my ass kicked—technically or not technically, whatever the case might be and I wasn't in any frame of mind to finesse the technicalities—by a woman. One single punch had thrown me to the floor in an embarrassing heap, covered in sticky-sweet alcohol and wrapped in a haze of humiliation. The worst of it was, I'd seen it coming. I'd known, even before the woman had pulled her arm back, that I was getting hit. And I hadn't moved. Hadn't even flinched.
Because I was too busy staring at Addy. At the expression on her face. At the emotion in her dark eyes. Surprise. Disappointment. Hurt. Things that I had put there because I'd been a callous bastard.
Maybe I hadn't moved when I saw the punch coming because a part of me figured I deserved it. Maybe I still thought I deserved it. No maybe about it—I did. It didn't matter that Addy and I were just having fun. That the only thing between us was a one-night stand that neither one of us had bothered to end yet, not even after three weeks.
Fun.
Sex.
No commitments.
More sex.
Yeah, sure. I'd been telling myself that for the last few weeks. Every single time we'd seen each other—which had been damn near every free minute either one of us had—I'd convinced myself it was just fun.
So why was I besieged by guilt and sharp remorse?
It sure as hell wasn't because I'd been sucker-punched. And it sure as hell wasn't because I'd been caught standing her up. That guilt had been with me all night, from the time I left this shit hole of a practice arena all the way up until I'd landed on my ass in the middle of a crowded bar. Maybe if I had called Addy to let her know—except I couldn't call her because I didn't have her number. Hell, I didn't even know her last name. Not because I didn't want to know, but because that was the silent agreement between us.
Fun.
Sex.
No commitments.
More sex.
Yeah. Uh-huh. Sure.
I was an ass and deserved everything I got. And that was why I hadn't moved when I saw the punch coming. That was why I'd stood there, not even flinching when a solid fist connected with the side of my face.
I just hadn't expected it to hurt so damn much. And I sure as hell hadn't expected the sting of injury to combine with my own bitterness to create the fucking mess I currently was.
Something solid slammed into my ankle, the sharp pain only slightly dulled by the leather upper of my skate. I looked down, frowned at the slab of rubber spinning on the ice by my foot, belatedly realized it was the puck. Yeah, because what else would it be? I was at fucking practice, where I was supposed to be sharpening my skills so we didn't look like complete asses when we hit the ice for our first preseason game in two weeks.
Pretty sure that wasn't going to happen.
I slammed the edge of the puck with the tip of my blade, spun around, and shot the puck back toward Logan Byrd, who was supposed to be playing defense for the Bourdons. His smirk was visible through the cage on his mask but I ignored it, just like I ignored the muttered digs from a handful of the other players. Everyone had heard what happened last night—not really a surprise—and they were taking turns riding me about it—also not a surprise.
Whatever. Fuck it. Not like I hadn't been given shit before. I'd handle this the same way I usually handled everything else that annoyed the piss out of me: by ignoring it.
I sucked in a deep breath of air, winced at the throbbing in my cheek, and pushed off with the edge of my skate. Cool air washed over my face as I gathered speed, my stick out in front of me, the blade sweeping across the ice. Tristan called out and I came to a stop, throwing snow with my skates as he passed the puck to me. I caught it with the stick, spun around, and raced toward the net. Five feet. Three. Two—
I pulled back, started to swing my stick forward then stopped at the last second and darted to the right before slamming the puck into the net. It sailed past Luke Matthews' left shoulder, hitting the back with a satisfying swoosh like that's where I'd been aiming. It hadn't been but I wasn't going to complain. It was a beautiful shot and, in a real game, would have counted as a point.
Except this wasn't a real game, it was practice.
And no matter how great it might have looked, I'd still been off—and so had Luke. He should have easily read my hesitation, should have never committed to following through. If we'd really been playing, that would have cost us a point.
I skated past him, giving him a sympathy tap with my stick. Not because he'd flubbed the save but because the goalie coach looked like he was ready to have a coronary. That meant Luke was next up for an ass-chewing and we all knew it.
I skated over to the bench, pushing my helmet back before reaching for one of the water bottles lining the boards. Dylan slid to a stop next to me, spraying my legs with well-aimed snow before grabbing his own bottle. Christian Tracey and Sean Worthington joined us and we stood there, pretending we weren't paying any attention at all to the shouts coming from the net.
"So. Who's the girl?"
I shot a long stream of water into my mouth, ignoring Dylan's question the way I'd been ignoring it since last night. My silence didn't faze him because he nudged me in the side then turned toward Christian and Sean with a big grin on his face.
"You should have seen her. She was fucking hot. Big, dark eyes. Stacked curves. And that mouth—shit, I was having fantasies about that mouth on my—"
I slammed my shoulder into Dylan's chest, stopping him before he could say anything else. He was damn lucky I didn't haul off and flatten his ass for even thinking of Addy like that. The only reason I didn't was because I knew he was talking shit just to force a reaction from me. And he'd succeeded, too, because even though I knew why he was running his mouth, I still wanted to ram my fist into it to get him to shut the fuck up.
Dylan didn't seem to mind, though. He just pushed me away with a chuckle and took another swig of water. "You've been holding out on us, Shaw."
"I haven't been doing shit."
"Yeah. Uh-huh. C'mon, fess up. Who is she? You need to tell us at least that much, considering we all damn near got arrested last night because of you."
"We weren't even close to getting arrested."
"Bullshit. The only reason we weren't is because I made sure we were hauling ass before the cops got there."
I shook my head and tossed the empty bottle toward the bench. "No, the only reason we weren't busted was because that other fight broke out just as the cops were getting there."
"True. And how fucking stupid do you have to be to pull a stunt like that right in front of the police?"
"Not stupid: drunk." I tossed up another silent thanks for the only piece of luck in what had turned out to be an otherwise shitty night.
"Either way, we were still damn lucky. And for that, you owe us an explanation."