She huffs, sliding off the stool. "Your loss," she says over her shoulder as she walks away.
I exhale slowly, draining the last of my club soda. I should probably just head home. The noise, the crowd, the smell of old beer—it's all grating against my nerves. But home means an empty apartment and too much time alone with my thoughts of Elena.
"Can I get another?" I ask the bartender, pointing to my empty glass.
Twenty minutes later, as I’m contemplating leaving again, another woman appears at my side. This one is even more direct.
"Your place or mine?" She skips the pleasantries entirely, sliding a hand onto my thigh. Her red fingernails stand out starkly against my jeans. "I've always had a thing for bad boys who can throw a punch."
I glance at her hand, then at her face. She’s a dark-eyed beauty with ruby red lips. There's a hungry desperation in her expression that makes me uncomfortable.
What is it with these women pawing at me tonight? I remove her hand. "I’m not interested, darlin’."
Her eyes narrow. "What's your problem? Too good for me?"
"It's not that. I'm just not looking for company tonight."
"Bullshit." She leans in, the smell of vodka heavy on her breath. "I've seen you leave with girls before. What's different about tonight?"
"Everything," I say, surprising myself with the answer. "Everything's different."
She opens her mouth to respond, but a deep voice cuts in from behind them.
"Hey, Barnesy. What’s up?" Evan Daniels appears at my side, his expression neutral, but his posture making it clear he's ready to run interference.
The woman glances between us, then scowls. "Your friend's being an asshole." She stalks away, disappearing into the crowd.
Daniels slides onto the now-vacant stool. "That's at least the second one you've sent packing tonight. Have there been more that I missed?"
I shrug. "Nah, just the two."
"Interesting." Daniels signals the bartender. "Beer, please. Whatever's on tap." Then to me: "I don't think I've ever seen you turn down that kind of attention before."
"Maybe I'm evolving." I attempt a smile.
The bartender delivers Daniels' beer. He takes a long sip, studying me over the rim of the glass.
"That was a good thing you did tonight," he says finally. "Stepping in for Tucker."
"Tell that to Coach. Or the refs." My tone is bitter. "All they saw was me starting another fight."
"Coach knows what Anderson was doing," Daniels says. "He just wants you to find smarter ways to handle it."
"Like what? Asking Anderson to pretty, pretty please stop targeting our rookie?"
Daniels takes another sip. "Fighting isn't always the answer, you know."
I flex my sore hand. "Sometimes it’s the only thing that works, though."
"For hockey, maybe." Daniels' voice drops lower, more serious. "Not for whatever else is going on with you."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means I've known you long enough to recognize when something's eating at you, and it's not just about tonight's game." He gestures toward the women now clustered at the far end of the bar, occasionally glancing our way. "It also means I know you well enough to find it very strange that you're turning down sure things like that. So what gives?"
I consider lying to Daniels or deflecting with a joke. But I’m tired of pretending, and Daniels has always been straight with me.
"There's someone," I admit, the words feeling strange in my mouth.
