Brett glances at me, and I nod, sure that Michaels is done fighting. Brett grabs Mullet’s elbow, hauling him to his feet.
“I–I’m sorry,” Mullet mumbles.
Michaels rubs his fist across his eyes, smearing blood over his face, and for the first time, I notice his injured palm.
“Take them outside,” I growl to Brett and Frank, who start dragging the three guys to the front door. “And someone call the cops.” I release Michaels and push our bodies apart.
The room is silent except for Bryan Adams’s “Please Forgive Me” filling the air with ironic lyrics because I’m so done forgiving this asshole. He’s crossed a line. Michaels’s red-rimmed hazel eyes meet mine, and I almost gag at the smell of alcohol on his breath.
“Let’s go, Stitch,” I growl, using his hockey nickname.
Early in Michaels’ NHL career, he was given the moniker because akin to the Disney character, he was unpredictable and indestructible—until he wasn’t.
The nickname fit. It still fits. But for different reasons. Tonight, all I see is the Stitch who built up New York City from books and toys in Lilo’s bedroom, and then took them to the ground like a deranged Godzilla.
Michaels blanches at the name, and he sways as I guide him through the double doors and down the hall toward my office by his shoulders.
“I’m really sorry, Bastian,” he slurs when I slam the door closed behind us and shove him into my chair.
His miserable state only ups my frustration, and I clench my hands to keep them from shaking. The urge to hit him is strong.
So. Strong.
Thanks to him, I now have to deal with thousands of dollars’s worth of damage plus insurance, which means morepaperwork for me. Not to mention, the incident will probably put a dent in our business’s reputation.
All because ofthisguy.
Studying him now as he cradles his injured hand to his chest, smearing blood all over his gray hoodie, you’d never know that he played for four years at Whitmore University with the NCAA. That he listed himself as a free agent at twenty-three and signed with the Vancouver Canucks, where he played as a two-way defenseman. That despite his late start, he was a damn good player. That his talent, coupled with his good looks and cheeky attitude, meant that he skyrocketed in popularity.
Until he took a puck to the throat two years in.
Several months later, he showed up here and hasn’t left since.
I walk to a cabinet next to the desk, pull out a first-aid kit, and kneel in front of him. Then, I prep some ointment, gauze, and medical tape.
“Give me your hand, Stitch.”
“Please don’t call me that.” His voice is raw, the words like gravel falling from his lips.
“Just give me your fucking hand.”
He reaches out, placing his palm face up on his thigh so I can examine it. I take it and carefully wipe away the blood and check for bits of glass. I inspect his knuckles too since he just nearly broke Mullet Guy’s jaw. The cut doesn’t seem very deep. I apply some ointment and wrap the gauze around it.
Michaels watches me while I work, his gaze curious and unsure. I’m still beyond angry, the tension in my body tight like a rubber band, but in his inebriated state, I’m not sure if he can sense my mood because if he could, he’d run.
“So you remember me.” I peer up at him, and he nods slowly.
“Of course. Charlie’s brother.”
He should remember me for other reasons too, but he wassurely too fucked up to remember those. “My name isn’t Bastian.”
“I’m too drunk to say your full name.”
Case in point.
“That’s one thing we can agree on,” I snark, pulling the gauze extra tight. He winces, and I smirk. “Most people call me Seb.”
“I don’t like it. That’s a dumb nickname.”
