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“I’m sure it’s not that bad, Marky Mark.” Then he looks at me. “You need to talk, man? Like, that was pretty loaded.”
I shake my head. “Just calling it like I see it.”
Neither Marcus nor Dante say anything else. I’ve killed the mood. Oh, well—it was already killed for me before we even walked in here. Might as well just drag everyone else down to my level.
I take another drink of my beer. I think it’s about time to call the night quits. I’m not feeling the vibe of the club and I’m not feeling hanging out with Marcus and Dante. They’re my boys, but?—
“All the beer in the world isn’t gonna fix the shitshow of a practice you pulled, Dalton.”
I sneer. I’d recognize that intrusive voice anywhere.
Bastian.
25
REESE
My least favorite teammate saunters up to our table. Marcus and Dante sit tall immediately, both of them prepared to back me up at a moment’s notice, even though I’ve been a raging asshole since we got here.
A little voice in the back of my head says that I don’t deserve their friendship.
I set my beer down and look up at Bastian. “Not sure I know what you’re talking about, Bastian. From where I’m sitting, you’re the one that can’t stop fucking up.”
“You like to go off and do your own shit. You can’t even stick to the playbook. You think that’s not fucking up? Playing around in your ego isn’t gonna win games.”
“And your inability to remember simple drills ain’t, either. Or was I imagining all those falls today?”
Fifteen times, he fucked up rounding the corner during a puck-handling drill. I counted every last one of them, because I’m a petty son of a bitch like that.
Bastian’s face burns hot. He plants his palms on our table and leans forward. “How about you?—”
“Or,” I interrupt, leaning in to meet him, “we could focus on the fact that you want my position so bad but you couldn’t even score a single goal today? Wide-open net, and you shank one into the rafters. It’s a miracle you’re still even allowed to set foot in the stadium.”
Bastian looks like he’s going to explode. I wish he would. I’d welcome any excuse to take out my frustration on his face.
I know it’s toxic. I know I’m acting like the man that I always said I wouldn’t become. But Bastian brings out the worst in me.
Even if it’s a shitty excuse, it’s the only one I have.
He sneers at me. Marcus and Dante have their fists clenched and at the ready. I could just start the fight. Lay a nice one on his face. I’d have to deal with the fact that starting it would put me in some shit, but it would be worth it.
“Reese Dalton? Is that you?”
A high-pitched, valley-girl-meets-country-girl tone voice breaks through the tension sizzling around the table. I don’t recognize it, but when I turn to the direction of it, I realize I don’t need to.
There’s a trio of spray-tanned, Orange-Theory-toned women with their hips jutted to the sides in their best Instagram girl poses. They’re wearing cropped hockey jerseys that show off their midriffs and ultra-tight pants that leave nothing to the imagination. Their faces, almost indistinguishable from each other, are caked in layers of makeup, and even from here, I can smell the vodka cranberry on their breaths.
They’re puck bunnies. Hot, hungry, and painfully interchangeable. Any one of my teammates might’ve slept with them already and I wouldn’t know. Hell, I might’ve slept with them already.
Any other night, I’d welcome the intrusion. But not tonight. Between Bastian and Olivia, my mood is sour as shit. All I want is a dark room and some peace and quiet.
I sit back as the girls invite themselves into the empty seats of the table. Dante eyes one of them and so does Marcus, though at least he has the sense to deny one of the girls when she asks to sit in his lap.
Maybe he really does love Clarissa.
Bastian turns his attention to the third one. “Hey,” he says, nodding her way. “I’m Bastian.”
“I know.” She tosses her hair over her shoulder as her eyes zero in on me. She completely ignores Bastian. “And you’re Reese Dalton. I saw you across the club and just had to come over here. My name’s Sherry.”
