1
Liam
The Red Card Lounge is packed with bodies pressed together on the dance floor. The bass is loud enough to rattle the walls. It thrums through my chest as I throw back another whiskey, bobbing my head to the music.
“Nova,” Jake shouts over the music, slapping my back hard enough to make me stumble. “That blonde at three o'clock has been eye-fucking you for the last ten minutes.”
I glance over and sure enough, she's there. Pretty, sure, but forgettable. They always are.
“Not interested,” I call back, already turning away.
Logan slides up beside me, a cocky grin plastered across his face. “Your loss, man. More for me.” We crushed the Chicago Chargers tonight, and we’re all riding a high from our win.
Even Ethan, our defenseman, is here, nursing a beer in the corner and scowling at anyone who gets too close. For him, that’s about as lively as it gets.
My phone buzzes against my thigh, and I fish it out of my pocket. The screen lights up with a name I haven't seen in months.
Mom.
My stomach clenches. She never calls unless she wants to guilt me into coming to one of her forced family dinners, where I sit at a table with half-siblings I barely know and a stepfather who's made it clear I don't belong.
I stare at the screen until it stops buzzing, then shove it back in my pocket like it never happened.
“Everything cool?” Jake asks, eyeing me.
Jake has been my closest friend since I joined the Renegades, and he's got this annoying ability to see right through my bullshit. He's the only guy I told about my dad walking out, and that was only after too many beers and a particularly brutal loss where I'd been spiraling.
He didn't give me pity. Instead, he just listened and then told me to stop letting a deadbeat define me.
“Yeah, all good.”
But my phone buzzes again. Same name. Same sick feeling in my gut.
Fuck it. I can't deal with this here, not with the guys watching. I need somewhere quiet to call her back, figure out why she’s calling me after months of silence.
“I'll be right back,” I tell Jake, already pushing through the crowd.
I make my way toward the back of the club, eyes on my phone as I scroll to her contact. My thumb hovers over the call button. Maybe I should just ignore it. She made her choice a long time ago when Dad left, and she decided her new family was more important.
A body collides with mine. My phone goes flying. Ice-cold liquid soaks my shirt.
“I’m so sorry!” A feminine voice says, blonde head looking down.
“No, it’s my fault, I wasn’t—” I look up.
Everything stops.
Holy fuck.
“—paying attention,” I finish, a little breathless.
I've met a lot of beautiful women. It comes with the territory. But this. This is different.
Her eyes hit me first. Hazel and almond-shaped, with this slight downturn at the corners that makes her look like she's looking at you through lowered lashes. Bedroom eyes.
The kind of eyes that make you forget your own name.
Her gaze is direct, confident, intense. Like she's looking right through me, seeing something I didn't even know I was hiding.
