The buzzer sounded, only somewhat covering the disappointed groans of the hometown crowd.
Game over.
Another L.
And our playoff hopes just got dimmer.
***
Hours later.
I pulled my car to the front of the Denver Regents—the hotel I called home. I opened the door and a valet was already outside my window, waiting for me.
I opened my door and, with a grunt, stood on shaky legs. Coach wasn't happy about our game—and after the loss, he bag-skated us for an hour as punishment. My legs might as well have been filled with cement.
“Tough luck tonight, Mr. Rockwell,” the valet said, forcing a sympathetic grimace. “You had the goalie beat clean, too.”
I didn't say a word, didn't look at him, either. After that loss, I'd rather not be noticed. And I certainly wasn't in the mood to talk about how it'd gone down.
I passed him my car keys, and a $100 bill with it anyway. “Keep her safe, will ya.”
“Of course, Mr. Rockwell.”
With a yawn, I strutted through the lobby. All I could think of was howsweetit'd feel when the second my back hit that mattress, and I could finally pass out.
But, as I strutted through the lobby, I had that eerie feeling of being watched. I shot a glance towards the hotel bar. Sure enough, two girls in racy cocktail dresses sat at the bar. One girl stared as I strolled through the lobby, watching me with interest. She bolted upright and exaggerated the arch in her back. I knew her eager eyes were an invitation.
I cracked half a smile.MaybeI could stop for a drink first.I went to the bar and stood opposite her. I ordered my usual: vodka and water.
Across the bar, the outgoing one made bedroom eyes at me. We locked eyes. She tossed her brunette hair over her shoulder. Bit her lip. Made a show out of crossing her long legs, waving them in front of me like she were teasing a dog with a steak.
I winked. She whispered something to her friend, who grabbed her things and excused herself. I didn't waste any time. I took my drink, stood next to her, and put my arm around the back of her chair.
“Hey.”
She smiled. “Hi.”
“So what's your name?” I asked with a tone that lacked interest.
“Nicole.” She extended her hand to me.
I took her hand in mine and kissed it. “Nicole. Pleasure.”
“Oh, a gentleman!” she squealed.
I laughed. “Nah.”
“No? You're not a gentleman?”
“Nope. Trust me.”
She seemed thrown, unsure. “So—er—what'syourname?”
“Why ask questions when you already know the answer?”
She snagged a bit of her lip between her front teeth. She had the look of someone caught in a lie.
“Okay. Fine.You'reHunter Rockwell.”
