I shot off the text to Zach, who had sent me four pouty emojis in a row in response to my last text. He responded to my affirmative one with a little purple devil smiley face and then an angel.
I tried to find comfort in Belle’s words, in the fact that she was speaking my own love language to me. She knew I didn’t want to talk. I didn’t want to sit around and mope. No, my personal brand of therapy came in the form of avoidance — and she was willing to support that.
Sometimes I swore my best friend knew me a little too well.
I couldn’t pull any of my excuses with her, not without her reading right through them. And as much as I did want to lie around and feel sorry for myself, I knew I’d have fun at the bar. I knew I’d want to watch the game. And I knew being around her, and being around Zach, would help me feel better.
Still, something felt off as I applied my mascara, slipping on my Bears hoodie and a fitted pair of ripped jeans before I walked out the door. My head was foggy, my heart still beating too rapidly or not at all — depending on the minute. I just wanted to sit inside in my pajamas, but then again, I also didn’t want to be alone.
It was the first little sign that I didn’t feel in control.
Maybe it was because no matter how much control I had in my life — what I did each day, who I spent time with, how I coped with Carlo’s passing — I couldn’t control my brain. When I went to sleep, it had the power to completely mess me up. All it had to do was show me a memory, or his face, or her face, and every ounce of control I had was gone.
That dream had thrown me, and now I was spinning in space, trying to find orbit again.
I hoped a beer and the game was the answer.
I think I knew even before I left my house that it wasn’t.
Zach
Eight days had passed since the game, and I hadn’t seen Gemma.
Well, technically, anyway.
I’d seen her in my dreams, in my memories, in my fantasies as I wiped down the bar or ran the loop by my apartment. I’d seen the look on her face when she saw me in that seat next to her, and I’d relived that moment when I stole that kiss from her — over and over, again and again.
But I hadn’t seen her in person since the night she strutted away from me after that Bears loss.
It wasn’t like I hadn’t been trying to see her again, since the last game. I’d tried twisting her arm into a coffee date, a movie night, and even just a stroll on the river walk that wasn’t too far from her place.
She’d declined every time.
I wasn’t surprised, given that she was still hell bent on sticking to her plan. But, she was texting me every day, responding to my requests with the same witty banter we’d had since the day we met.
She was playing hard to get, but she’d be lying through her teeth if she told anyone that she didn’t want me, too.
At least, that’s what I wanted to tell myself.
And me? Well, I couldn’t get the girl out of my head.
I wasn’t ashamed to admit that, at first, the connection was physical. She was a gorgeous girl — stunning, really. With her dark hair, her emerald, almost neon eyes, and her tight body that somehow curved in all the right places, it was hard not to be instantly attracted to her.
But then, she gave me shit back just as easily as I gave it to her. That was the bait, drawing me in, making me want a closer look. And seeing her at a football game?
That was the hook.
Playing football my entire life, I was no stranger to girls who said they were into football. Of course, for most of those girls, it meant they were into football players. Ask them about a team, or a position, or any fundamental rule? They were clueless.
But not Gemma.
Watch her jumping around and smiling like a goon in that stadium, or holding her breath and lacing her fingers over her head as she watched a high-stakes play, and it was easy to see she had a genuine love for the game. She was invested, a true fan, and she knew what she was talking about.
Still, there was more to her than just her love for football and her adorable sense of humor. Under that smile, under those eyes, she had a story.
And I wanted to read it.
It’d been a long time since a woman had captivated me past a first date. Honestly, because most of the time, women were easy for me to read. I could see right through their fake laughs, their insincere compliments tossed my way with their hands wrapped tight around my bicep. When I was younger, they wanted me for my potential — for the money I’d get if I made it pro. And after that, especially after my last actual girlfriend, I learned that I didn’t want someone who only wanted me for what I could do for them.
Gemma wasn’t that kind of girl.
I didn’t know nearly as much as I wanted to about her, but I knew she was different. I knew she’d been hurt, and maybe because of that or maybe just because of who she was as a person — she didn’t look at the world and ask what it could give her.
She didn’t want a damn thing from me or from anyone else.
And maybe that’s what made me want more of her.
Too bad she had that book of hers closed tight, under lock and key like it was in the restricted area, not even flirting with the idea of giving me a look past the cover.
But it was Monday, a sacred night during football season, and our city was taking on the Packers in Wisconsin. They were our biggest rivals, and the bar would be packed with Chicagoans yelling at the television screens.
Including Gemma.
I smiled at her text — not the one that she originally sent, that said she wouldn’t be coming, but the one she sent ten minutes later that said she’d changed her mind. That smile was glued to my face as Doc and I filled orders at the bar, running back and forth as we took care of our clients as fast as we could. We were busier than hell, and Doc was stressed and grumpy.
But I couldn’t stop smiling.
When two of our regulars left the bar when the crowd started pouring in, I’d stolen their barstools and stashed them behind the bar. We were too busy for me to do any kind of seat saving from where I was, but I was hell bent on having Gemma close to me.
And when she walked through the door twenty minutes after kick-off, her hair pulled into a high ponytail and eyes outlined in a smoky charcoal, I had to actively work to keep my jaw from hitting the floor.
Along with every other guy in the bar.
Belle spotted me before Gemma did, and she grinned, skipping over to where I was pushing through the crowd to deliver their barstools. I wiggled my way through some of our regulars, apologizing and telling them their next beers were on me just so they’d back away from the bar. I sat the stools down, grinning as Belle plopped herself down in the first one.
“Wow,” she crooned, smoothing her hands over the countertop once her butt was in the seat. “You save these two seats just for us, Mr. Bartender Sir?”
“Just for you.” My eyes flicked to Gemma, and I stood on the other side of the bar to see if maybe there was a hug in my future.
There wasn’t.
She did let me pull the stool out for her, though, and I gently touched the small of her back as I scooted her in. There was a small smile on her lips, but her eyes seemed distant, and she did little more than that smile to greet me.
I tried not to take it personally, wondering if maybe she was just playing her same hard-to-get games as I made my way back around to the other side of the bar. I slid a coaster in front of Belle first, the next one landing in front of Gemma just as she ran a hand through her pony tail and let it swing back over her shoulder. Her eyes caught mine, and her cheeks tinged a light pink, a bigger smile threatening the corners of her mouth.
She looked at Belle, but I kept my gaze on her.
“It’s like knowing the guy who can get us backstage at a concert,” Belle said.
“Except way less cool,” Doc chimed from behind me. He clapped a hand on my shoulder, extending his other for Belle. “I’m Doc, and I own this place. So i
f you want to have any kind of connection that counts, it’s me you should flirt with.”
Belle laughed, her head shooting back. “You know, I thought I liked you, Zach, but I just found my new favorite person.”
“Hard to compete with this guy,” I said. My eyes were still on Gemma.
Belle shook Doc’s hand. “I’m Belle.”
“Nice to meet you.” Doc reached for Gemma next, and her eyes skated to mine briefly before she smiled at him and slid her tiny hand in his. “You must be the woman this guy can’t stop talking about.”
She flushed even more, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear once she had her hand back. “If by that you mean the woman he won’t stop pestering, then yes, I’m the lucky one.”
Doc chuckled, squeezing my shoulder. “Looks like you’re real close to another date there, son. Keep it up.”
I smirked, nodding as Doc walked to the other end of the bar to take another drink order. But my eyes were still on Gemma.
And I was calling bullshit.
“I’m a pest now, huh?”
She nodded, leaning one elbow on the bar. “But, you’re the cute kind of pest. Like a family of mice.”
Belle laughed, tapping her knuckle on the bar in front of our staring contest. “Okay, before you two battle this out, can you get me a martini, please? Extra dirty.” She flicked her long, curled, strawberry-blonde hair over her shoulders. “I already have to suffer through a football game. If I also have to suffer through your middle school flirting, I at least need lubrication.”
Gemma laughed, and I broke our eye contact long enough to stir up Belle’s drink and slide it in front of her. She thanked me with a wink, popping an olive between her lips after the first sip.
“And for you?” I asked Gemma.
“Double shot of your best Añejo tequila. Chilled.”
I whistled through my teeth, filling her order and garnishing it with a slice of lime. “That kind of night, huh?”
I was just kidding, but when I noticed the way Belle was watching Gemma, I frowned. And it wasn’t until then that I really saw it.
She was there, in the bar, her makeup done and her team’s logo on her chest. But she wasn’t there — not really. Her eyes were a bit glazed, distant, and every smile she gave me seemed subdued and far off, like she was medicated or living in some sort of dream.
I realized what I’d seen before, what she’d shown me up until this point — all that toughness and that blasé attitude — it was her mask.
And tonight, she’d let it slip.
Gemma just shrugged, taking the first sip and letting her eyes focus on the television above me. I watched her for a long moment, ignoring Doc’s snap telling me he needed me to take more orders down at that end.
I didn’t know what it was that was bothering her, what was on her mind, but I had one mission: get the girl out of her head.
“You know, I think you’re bullshitting,” I said, keeping my eyes fixed on her. “About me being a pest.”
“Do you now?”
I nodded. “Uh-huh. After all, you came here. To my bar.” I pushed back from the bar, throwing her a cocky smirk. “You wouldn’t be here if I bothered you.”
She gave me a pointed look. “You asked me to come here.”
“And you came,” I reminded her. “Just admit it — you like me. You wanted to see me, too.”
Gemma smiled, but she rolled her eyes, taking another sip of her tequila as her gaze fixed on the screen again. “I came here to watch the game — at a bar I came to plenty of times before I knew you worked here, by the way.”
I pointed at her. “That’s a lie.”
“Is not.”
“Um, it absolutely is. Because I’ve worked here for almost twelve years now and I would bet money on the fact that you never set foot inside this bar before the night we met.”
Her eyes found mine then, and they narrowed into slits. “You’re that confident, that you’d bet money on that fact?”
I nodded.
“Why? Doc could have taken my order,” she tried. “Or another bartender. It could have been a night you were off work.”
“There are no other bartenders, and I don’t take nights off.”
“Ha! Now who’s the liar?” She pointed her finger back at me. “You do too take nights off. You did when you went to the first home game with me, and again last Sunday for that game.”
“First two nights in twelve years, including when I had the flu.”
Technically that was a lie, since I did have Saturdays off and we did have two other temp bartenders on staff, kids who just liked to make some extra cash while they were in college. They were the ones who covered the bar on Saturdays. Still, I knew she was also lying. She hadn’t been to Doc’s before that first night I saw her.
Gemma’s eyes softened, questions lining them as she watched me. But she schooled her features in the next second. “That’s just not sanitary.” She ran a hand back through her ponytail. “And still doesn’t mean I’ve never been in this bar before the night we met.”
“You haven’t,” I said, this time leaning over the bar on both elbows. I leveled my gaze with hers, my focus slipping to her ruby-painted lips briefly before we locked eyes again. “I know, because there’s no way in hell I wouldn’t have noticed if you had walked through those doors.” I shook my head, grinning. “Just like I can’t forget you ever since the night you did.”
A smile tugged at the corner of her full lips, and Belle visibly swooned from where she was watching us — not the game — on her barstool. But Gemma just watched me, that hint of a smile, her eyes softening a bit before she cleared her throat.
She pulled back, breaking our eye contact and taking a drink from her glass. “You’re wrong about me being here for you,” she said, hissing through her teeth at the taste of the tequila. Then, she glanced over her shoulder before facing me again with a wild grin. “And I’m going to show you just how wrong you are.”
In the next second, she tilted that tequila back and chugged it like it was apple juice instead of a thirty-dollar alcoholic drink. Her eyes watered a little as she sucked the lime, and she didn’t offer me another glance before she was walking across the bar in the opposite direction of me.
“Oh, boy,” Belle murmured, and both our gazes followed Gemma until she stopped.
Right at a table full of rowdy, drooling guys.
Zach
“You know, if you’re really that into torturing yourself, I could always loan you my flogger.”
Belle sipped on her martini, shoving another olive in her mouth. I’d just given her a bowl of them this time.
“It’s meant for sexual pleasure,” she continued, waving the little wooden sword she kept sticking the olives with around as she spoke. “But, if you whipped it hard enough, it could do some damage.”
I blew out a breath through my nose, digging a shovel into the ice bin and dropping the cubes loudly into a glass. I filled it with Jack Daniels first, pushing the button for Coke on my gun and topping it off before sliding it down to one of the Packers fans at the end of the bar.
When I glanced at Gemma again, just in time to see the guy she’d been hanging on for the past two hours slip his hand into her back pocket, I clenched my jaw.
“She’s drunk,” I said, bracing both hands on the bar as I blatantly stared at her. She’d been going to Doc to fill her drink orders after I not-so-subtly ignored her requests for more drinks on my end of the bar.
She wasn’t so drunk that we needed to cut her off, but she was well into the area where she could make some bad decisions.
And the lap she was currently crawling into had bad decision written all over it.
“You’re not wrong,” Belle said, popping another olive before chasing it with a drink of her martini. Her eyes were on Gemma, too, and she cringed a little at the sight of the meathead tickling her when she was finally in his lap. “She’s had a rough day.”
My chest tightened at t
hat. “What happened?”
“Not my place to say,” Belle answered, swinging back around in her chair. “But, if it makes you feel any better, I think you’re right about what you said earlier.”
I cocked a brow.
“About her wanting to see you.” Belle shrugged, finger skating the rim of her glass. “It’s been a long time since that girl has had something to really smile about, and every time you text her? She lights up like a sparkler on the Fourth of July.”
I scratched my jaw, tearing my eyes away from Gemma long enough to look at Belle when I asked, “What’s her deal with not wanting to date? Who hurt her?”
Belle sucked air through her teeth. “Ah, again — not my story to tell. All I can say is she has a reason, and honestly? I don’t blame her. I mean, I’m already president of the Single Forever Club, but even if I wasn’t, I wouldn’t push her to do something until she was ready.” Belle eyed her best friend from across the bar, a shadow of something washing over her face. “Not after what she’s been through.”
Her words circled in my head as my gaze swept back to Gemma. She had her arm around the guy she was sitting on, and he was drawing circles on her thigh with his thick, meathead fingers. I didn’t like him. It didn’t matter that I didn’t know him. He was looking at Gemma like she was something for him to conquer, like a joke between him and all his buddies there at that table.
And if he didn’t get his hands off her soon, I was going to lose my fucking mind.
“You want another drink?” I asked Belle, still staring at Gemma.
“Nah. Better stop here.” She paused. “I would take another bowl of olives, though.”
I eyed her under an arched brow. “We have pizza, you know.”
“Hey, don’t judge, just fill.” She pushed the bowl toward me, and I smirked, shaking my head as I filled it to the top with olives again.
It really was self-mutilation, the way I watched Gemma for the rest of the night. I couldn’t even answer if someone were to ask me what the score was, or what had just happened in the previous play. She was the only thing I could focus on, other than filling drink orders — and I did that just to keep myself from jumping over the bar, charging over there and ripping her out of that meathead’s arms.
The Wrong Game Page 12