by Lane, Stacy
“Another son?” Jo looks at Dad.
“I have three. The other doesn’t live here. Yet.”
“I own the bar,” Cam says with pride.
“You own majority, but not all of it.” I point out for everyone to understand.
“I only let you have a piece of it so you have something to fall back on when your body craps out and can’t play anymore.”
“That’s not happening anytime soon if you want to meet me on the ice for old times sake.”
“Boys, boys, not in front of the ladies,” Dad chides, pointedly staring at me.
Jo shuffles her feet and tweaks her glasses. She’s wearing a hidden smirk, but her body is drawn in once again like I noticed when she first got on stage. She may hold herself in a way to hide, but her eyes give everything away. She’s always watching, calculating the situation.
“Jo, let’s go sit down before the Labelle pissing match begins,” Chelsea says.
“Earl, thank you for keeping me entertained tonight,” Jo tells Dad.
“It was all my pleasure, Sourpuss.”
Jo and Chelsea walk away. My eyes zero in on the sway of blonde strands swinging side to side as she walks, and when it whips around as she glances over her shoulder one final time. Our eyes lock, and before she turns away, I let her see where my attention falls to next.
“Dad, are you setting us up again?” Cam asks in a bored tone.
“I was. Don’t worry, she doesn’t want any of you. Especially Brooks.”
Removing my eyes from Jo’s ass-hugging jeans, they come in contact with Amber. She gazes over at Jo, then back to me. Standing, she struts across the floor toward us.
“Shit,” I curse.
Cam’s tossed back his head, laughing. I think it’s over the fact that he takes my swearing for being bothered by Jo’s dismissal, but then it morphs into hilarity when he sees the same certain someone noticing she’s being ignored.
“You get yourself in the worst predicaments,” Dad shakes his head. “I’m leaving. I want a good night sleep, and watching my sons piss away the best years of their lives will not help with that.”
“Hey, it’s Brooks with all the stragglers,” Cam yells after him.
Jerk. He has his fair share of “stragglers” as well.
“Baby, you left me all alone,” Amber purrs when she reaches my side, wrapping her long baby pink nails around my arm.
“I was talking with my family.”
“Oh. So was that blonde girl your sister or something?”
Cam scoffs.
“No,” I say in a dry tone.
“Don’t worry, Amber, she’s not into him. But I’m going to find out if it’s just Brooks, or all the Labelles.” Cam grins, about to step away.
“She’s Chelsea’s friend. Stay away.”
Cam’s smile only widens.
I glare at the back of his head as he approaches their table. Vic sits with Chelsea on one side of the booth, Jo’s friend and her boyfriend are on the other side with Jo on the edge. When she smiles at my brother I look away.
“C’mon,” I say with shortness to Amber.
We sit with some of my other teammates and the women on their arms tonight. Amber knows them, of course. They’re like a secret cult with full access to the elite.
A scant twenty minutes later, I’m at the bar chatting with Nick to get away from Amber’s clutches more than needing a fresh beer, when I catch a glimpse of a long ponytail. Jo waves over her shoulder to the friends she left behind at the table with Vic and Chelsea.
My head volleys between the two. Then Jo slips outside through the private door.
After she walks out, I don’t think. I just do.
Feet moving on their own accord, I leave my cold beer at the bar. Amber sits close by and catches me heading for the door.
“Are we leaving?” she asks, halfway standing.
“No, I left something in my car. I’ll be right back.”
My hand connects with the push bar, and then I’m outside in the warm fall heat. Actually, the nights are decent with a cool breeze, but I still find it hot.
The rubbled lot holds the cars belonging to the players and Triplets employees. It’s lit by a few street lamps and the iridescent glow of the moon. I scan the area, but there’s no sign of Jo. Following the sidewalk that runs along the building, I turn the corner and see a slim figure leaning a shoulder against the wall. Hidden from view, if you’re entering through the front doors, but in plain sight, if you’re coming up from behind.
“Not a very smart spot to stand in,” I say to the back of her.
She whips around and drops the cell phone in her hand to the ground.
“Dammit, you didn’t have to sneak up like that,” she grumbles, bending down to retrieve her phone.
“Is it broken?”
“No. Luckily,” she snips.
“Why are you hiding out here?” I come to a stop in front of her, mirroring her position and leaning my shoulder on the building.
“I’m not hiding. I’m waiting for my Uber.”
“Again, not a smart spot to stand while you wait. Anyone unwelcome could have come up behind you.”
“Yeah, someone did.”
“I see why Dad calls you sourpuss,” I smirk.
“I see why Chelsea said to stay away from all of the Labelle brothers.”
That little cock-blocker.
“It would be safer to wait up front where it’s well-lit,” I voice, but neither of us moves.
“I just wanted a quiet spot to wait. The bar is loud and crowded, and then the hockey game was ten times worse.” Her gaze slips to the side, fingers clasping onto the outside of her frames.
“Is your ride almost here?” I ask.
Opening the app on her phone, she says while looking down, “Three minutes out.”
“I’ll wait with you,” I tell her even though she never asked. At the suspect frown marring her pretty face, I follow up with, “Without talking.”
She fiddles with her glasses again, turning with a sigh and leaning her backside against the wall.
With a hand tucked in one pocket, I watch her shift with discomfort from the weight of my gaze. I’ve picked up on her dislike of eyes being directed at her, and should probably do the polite thing and look away. But I don’t.
“Why’d you follow me out here?” she asks on a soft mumble.
I don’t answer right away, because the truth sets me back.
There’s a reason, a purpose, a specific outcome to everything I do. My word or my actions, whatever I set my mind to has been considered thoroughly for an end result. Except when Jo left the bar. Where she walked, my head turned and my feet followed.
“I was already walking out to my car for something.” My voice sounded hoarse so I cleared my throat, peering down into the dark, empty space between us.
“Won’t your girlfriend wonder where you are?”
“Amber’s not my girlfriend.”
“Right. Chelsea mentioned your team has an uncommon amount of single men.”
“Our schedules aren’t exactly conducive to serious relationships.”
“Is that why you’re not really in one?” She boldly quips back.
My lips twitch. “No, but it sounds good.”
“No wonder your dad is trying to pimp you out.”
“Pimp me out,” I mock with a hearty laugh. “That’s pretty accurate, actually. He does it with all three of us.”
“He’s a very nice man. Made my night. I was about to leave but he wouldn’t let me.”
“Sounds like my dad. He doesn’t always like everyone, so you’re one of the special ones if he’s giving you his time.”
There she goes again with the glasses.
Without responding to the compliment, Jo checks her phone again.
It’s profound how curious I am of her. She hates hockey, she wanted to get away from the noise and crowds, yet she went up on that stage tonight to sing karaoke. I’ve never been so inter
ested in a woman beyond what she’ll feel like naked beneath me.
Dad may find Jo special, but I do not plan on delving into why she’s affecting me differently as well.
The only woman who has ever had a hold over me is my mother. And I plan on keeping it that way.
“My ride is here,” she says, pushing off the wall. “Have a good night, Brooks.”
Her kind voice saying my name kicks me right in the stomach. At least, that’s the way it felt. Maybe I need to go eat some food to balance out the three beers I’ve drank.
“Jo,” I call after her before she makes it to the silver sedan idling out front. “Chelsea’s a good woman and could use some new friends around here. She left everything behind for Vic and it’s been a little hard on her.”
She nods. “I have her number. I’ll be in touch.”
“Night, Jo.”
“Goodbye, Brooks.”
I’m starting to wish this really was a final goodbye. But damn that gut punch, because I don’t believe it is.
I wait until the taillights fade out of the parking lot, then push off the side of the wall and return inside.
Amber glues herself to my side once more. I’ve convinced myself my unsettled stomach is due to a sudden illness. Why else would I wind up leaving the bar tonight—after a great game and filled with a victory high—alone?
Amber gets pissed.
I’m confused and blaming a nonexistent stomach bug.
My bother can’t figure out if he should have me committed, or find the humor in this unexpected transgression against the Labelle bachelor-for-life law.
FOUR
Jo
“Bye, ladies!” Taytum calls out, waving as she walks away.
Chelsea and I wave goodbye, then turn simultaneously to each other.
“Where to now?” Chelsea asks.
Slipping hands in my back pockets, I say, “Can’t believe I’m suggesting this, but how about we go somewhere to watch the game.”
“Have you been secretly watching the Fury play this past couple weeks, Jo?” Chelsea grins.
“Maybe.”
Not only have I been watching the games, but I know their schedule.
Taytum and I have hung out with Chelsea a few times since we met her. An early dinner tonight was my idea. The game is away in Miami, and I knew Chelsea would be home alone. Taytum had to get back home to Nick, but Chelsea and I were free for the rest of the night.
A spontaneous night out did not scare me as much as it used to. Right about now, I’d be following behind Taytum and heading home once dinner was over. And for no other reason than dinner at a restaurant was all that I planned for the night.
I promised Taytum to crawl out of my shell more often. Though I did deal with a personal tug-of-war in the beginning, turns out even I am fed up with being pessimistic Jolene Harper twenty-four-seven. So I yanked her reluctant ass into the muddy losers pit.
Meeting Chelsea when I did couldn’t have happened at a better time. Taytum is my best friend, but in her committed relationship, her partner receives most of her attention, which is not unusual when couples are new and really involved with each other. She and Nick try to include me in almost everything they do. Chelsea’s married, yes, but she’s married to someone with a hectic work schedule. The poor woman is so available I feel as if I’m taking advantage of a person with less of a social life than mine.
Thirty minutes later I park my car in front of Triplets Bar. Packed nearly as much as the first night I came here, we go inside, and the same ease in its atmosphere as before comes over me.
Never thought a bar would meet the requirements of my comfort zone restrictions.
“I’m gonna use the bathroom first,” Chelsea says.
“Okay. I’ll be at the bar.”
We separate, I walk up the center and to the very back. The long bar curves on the right, but the left side ends in front of a narrow hallway. Pulling out a leather covered barstool, I take a seat at the counter near the left end. Two big screen TV’s are mounted high on either side, and others are scattered around the room. Of course, the hockey game plays on majority of the screens.
Exposed red brick runs down the entire back wall. Industrial shelving held all the liquor and serving glasses. Two guys manned the bar, one approaching me right away.
“What can I get you?”
“Miller, bottle.” No clue what Miller tastes like, but the urgency to sound cool hit me when this particular guy approaches. I fidget—very none-cool like—pushing my glasses further up on the bridge of my nose.
He pushed off the counter then stopped, “Jo, right?”
I lift my gaze to finally meet his face. “Yep. Earl’s son Cam?”
Asking his name with as a tentative question was all pretense. I knew his name was Cam, but I didn’t want to seem weird for remembering it so easily. He’s sort of unforgettable. Like his brother. Brooks has made an appearance in my thoughts more than I will ever admit to.
Cam grins. Setting a beer down in front of me, he says, “Thought you hated hockey.”
“I’m here with someone. Not for the game.”
“Ah. Well, if your date is at my bar, there’s a good chance he’s a hockey fan. Might want to escape while you can.”
Before I can correct any of his presumptions, he raps his knuckles against the counter and moves on to the next patron and their order.
I close my gaping mouth.
Cam and Brooks carry one similar trait. They have the same gray eyes as Earl.
Brooks is dark-haired and bearded and tattoos running down both arms. Cam’s hair is lighter, and stubble covering his jaw as if he shaves daily and it instantly reappears. Both men are temptingly dangerous for those attracted. Which I’d bet my already shitty eyesight is the entire population of Tampa.
The VIP section is open to the public tonight, no ropes blocking people off. The karaoke stage is not set up, thankfully. It crossed my mind on the drive over Chelsea might ask to do a duet. I had a lot of fun, but that first time was most likely a fluke on my part.
Beer lifted, rim resting on my bottom lip, I’m jolted from the sudden screams and uproar of cheers exploding from the entire room. I take the excitement as something related to the game, but when the rim misses my mouth, liquid dribbles down my chin and onto my exposed chest from the deep v-neck I wore.
Reaching for a napkin to dab at my wet skin, I glared at the offending game on television. Fingers pick at the layers of necklaces around my neck to wipe the beer off. I glanced around the room in hopes no one saw my spastic behavior.
I do a double take at the TV when a sweaty, yet extremely attractive face fills the screen.
Brooks smiles as he skates toward the huddle of teammates. The replay cuts in on my mesmerized gawk at his captivating appeal on the big screen. It was his goal everyone cheered for.
But they can’t just show a replay, no, they have to play it in slow motion too.
The man was already gorgeous enough on first glimpse. Did they really need to accentuate all his yumminess by slowing it down like it could be missed?
I’m sure most people enjoy the slow recap. Whether it be a fan appreciating the goal, or the boys and girls of the world taking pleasure in a titillating performance.
Crumbling the napkin in my fist, I divert my gaze from number twenty-five before I join the latter half from above.
“Ugh,” Chelsea sighs, pulling out the chair on my right. “Why do places like this have small restrooms? The lines are always so long.”
“It’d be more beneficial to expand the women’s restroom to have more toilets than the men’s. Cut theirs in half and add on to the women’s bathroom.”
“Where’s the suggestion box when you need it,” she smiles.
Cam reappears, greeting Chelsea with a drink she never ordered.
“Thanks, Cam.” To me, she says, “You know you come here too much when the bartender knows your drink order by heart.”
Right. She’s here o
n game nights.
Wonder if that ever gets old? I’m no reliable source for saying I wouldn’t want to go to a bar after every home game, but they’re a married couple. Isn’t this bar scene more for the single crowd?
“Told ya, Jo. Your date is like the ultimate hockey fan.” Cam leans his forearms on the top of the bar.
“I am.” She lifts her shoulders, taking a drink before saying, “Not just because my husband plays, either. I’ve been watching hockey since the day I was born.”
“Funny how I’ve never watched a game, let alone knew anything about the sport, and now I’m surrounded by people who are so adamant about it.”
“Seems you’ve finally met the right people,” Cam grins, winking and walking away.
I hate the winky thing guys do. They think it’s so cute and charming when it’s really obnoxious.
But when Cam does it, it’s not obnoxious or cute or charming. It’s spine-tingling, lip biting hot.
That thought forces me to unclamp my bottom lip. The Labelle men are too irresistible for their own good. I’m slightly frightened to ever meet the third brother.
“Who scored?” Chelsea asks, looking up at the TV nearest to us.
“Brooks. Right through the five-hole.”
She swings her head as fast as the puck is shot on goal. “Oh my God, you know what that is!”
I start laughing. “No fucking clue. I heard a guy a couple seats down say it.”
Chelsea shoves my shoulder, both of us laughing.
“Just for that, I’m making you go to a game with me.”
“Can’t we watch it at your house or mine?”
“No,” she argues. “Earl got my number from Brooks and has been badgering me non-stop about getting you to come out one night soon.”
“Wow he was serious,” I reply, pursing my lips.
“Did you think he wasn’t?”
“Sort of. I thought he was just saying that to be polite.”
“No way. You definitely made an impression on him. That or he is still trying to get you matched up to one of his sons. He told me if I wasn’t married already he’d be doing everything in his power to get me to become his daughter-in-law.”