I grab my bag and head for the door, deliberately cutting a path that takes me nowhere near Darren's stall. I don't need to catch another whiff of artificial neutrality where that woodsmoke scent should be. Don't need to watch him move in that new way that makes my skin feel like an off-rack suit.
On the bus, I claim a row to myself, sprawling across both seats with my headphones already in place. Universal signal for "fuck off, I'm not talking." It usually works.
Not tonight.
Aidan drops into the seat across the aisle, his face flushed with the residual high of the win. The kid played lights out, two incredible saves in the third that kept us ahead. He deserves to celebrate.
Just not with me.
"Hell of a game, huh?" he says, either missing or ignoring my go-away signals.
I grunt noncommittally, scrolling through my phone with exaggerated focus.
"That save in the third," he continues, unperturbed by my lack of enthusiasm. "Darren really bailed me out there. If he hadn't cleared that rebound?—"
"Yeah, yeah, Malloy's a fucking hero." I cut him off. "Save the fanboy routine for someone who cares."
Aidan blinks, surprise flickering across his freckled face. "I was just saying?—"
"Go say it somewhere else." I turn up my music loud enough that he can hear it from across the aisle, a clear dismissal.
The kid's face falls, but he takes the hint, moving further up the bus to where Jones and Peterson are playing some card game on a makeshift table of equipment bags. I watch him go, ignoring the stab of guilt. Better he learns now. We're not friends just because we wear the same jersey.
The truth is I can't stand another second of anyone, especially the rookie, mooning over Darren fucking Malloy. Not when I'm working so hard not to do the same thing.
Twenty minutes later, we're filing into some upscale bar downtown, one of those places with exposed brick walls and Edison bulbs that charges fifteen bucks for a beer because of the "ambiance." The host recognizes us immediately, eyes widening as he takes in our group.
"Mr. Copeland! What an honor," he gushes, clearly a hockey fan. "We have your VIP room ready, just as your manager requested."
Of course they do. Perks of being recognizable in a hockey town.
The private room is actually decent with plush couches arranged around low tables, a private bar along one wall, music loud enough to feel but not so loud we can't talk. Not that I plan on doing much talking tonight.
I make a beeline for the bar, ordering a bourbon neat. The first sip burns pleasantly, warming a path down my throat. I scan the room as the team settles in, automatically tracking where everyone chooses to sit. It's instinct at this point, the tactician in me always mapping the field.
Jax claims a corner spot with good sightlines to the whole room. Captain through and through, always positioned to keep watch. The others take their usual places, all except for Darren, who slides into a booth against the far wall, angled so his backis protected. Classic defensive positioning, subconscious but telling.
What's more telling is how my packmates' eyes drift to him. How my own gaze can't seem to stay off him for more than thirty seconds.
I drain my glass and signal for another. This is going to be a long fucking night.
An hour in, the team's relaxed into celebration mode. Jones and Peterson are downstairs, probably picking up some starstruck omegas with the Grizzlies allure they're capitalizing on for as long as they can. The win's finally sinking in, the tension of the game bleeding away. Jax is actually smiling as he recounts a story from his rookie year while Dmitri sips a cocktail and listens in silence. Aidan seems to have forgotten my earlier brush-off, his laugh carrying across the room as he bonds with the others. Everyone's present and accounted for.
Except Darren.
He's physically here, nursing the same beer he started with, but his attention is fixed on his phone. Every few minutes he glances at the screen, thumbs moving rapidly, then shoves it back in his pocket. Only to pull it out again a minute later.
The pattern repeats enough times that eventually even Jax notices, raising an eyebrow at our distracted defenseman during one of his periodic sweeps of the room. Darren doesn't even see it, too absorbed in whatever's on his screen.
I shouldn't care. It's none of my business what's got him so fixated. But the bourbon has loosened something in me, pried open a crack in the careful wall I've built.
Before I can stop myself, I'm sliding into the booth across from him, my fresh drink in hand.
"Hot date?" I smirk when he startles, nearly dropping his phone. "Or are you just refreshing your Instagram to see howmany thirsty comments your last gym selfie got? Spoiler alert, it's fewer than mine."
Darren's eyes narrow, that usual irritation darkening them to a stormy blue. "Fuck off, Copeland."
"Such hostility." I lean back, sprawling deliberately in my seat. "And here I thought we were bonding over our big win. You know, team spirit and all that shit."
