Page 8 of Pressure Point

“Perfect.”

Liam raised his glass, tipping it toward her. The smile that spread across his face was genuine, and she returned it with one of her own. Injury was not something she ever wished on any of her players, especially not a head injury, but in this moment she was ever so slightly grateful to the San Antonio player Liam had knocked heads with. Without him, she and Liam never would have gotten to know each other. Liam was such a good guy—one of those guys you were happy to have in your life because you knew they would always be there for you. Taking a sip of the almost black colored liquid in his glass, Liam’s face turned sour, his lips puckering together and his brow furrowing as he forced himself to swallow whatever was in his mouth.

“Talia, what in God’s name did ye give me?” he cursed, his accent sounding stronger than it had just a moment ago.

“What?! That’s your O'Hara's stout. Same thing you always drink,” she threw back at him.

“That,” he said, sliding the mostly full pint glass toward her, “is not an O’Hara. That nonsense is something else entirely.”

She reached across the table, taking the glass from him and taking a sip. Her expression went from confusion to laughter a couple of seconds later, rather than the annoyance that was still written all over Liam’s. Avery looked between the two of them as Talia took another sip, this time letting out a little moan as she swallowed.

“This is that vanilla porter that is on special this month. Link was getting drinks for one of his tables, and I bet he mixed up the stouts. Want me to go get you the right one?”

“Nay, I should be getting home soon anyway. I have an early Zoom call with the family.”

“Let loose, Padre!” Dash interjected. “Have some fun! Shots on me!”

The rest of the table erupted into cheers, drawn out of their own side conversations by the word shots.

“I don’t do shots,” Liam told him.

Avery opened her mouth to comment that none of them really should be doing shots, since they were all probably borderline dehydrated after the physical exertion that was playing a full game, but she stopped herself. She wasn’t here to be anyone’s mother, and she already embarrassed herself enough with the whole Zlatan surgery diatribe.

“See, Avery, this is why I say he’s like a priest,” Dash continued, rounding the table and slinging his arm around her. She held her breath, afraid to move. Dash was touching her. “But promise me, Padre, come my birthday in a couple of weeks, we will celebrate with shots. You can’t go to Swagger and not have a Shaken or Stirred.”

“Swagger?”

“It was one of the first bars in Atlanta. The Shaken or Stirred is a signature item they’ve served since the sixties,” Avery told him. Liam nodded, still looking like he was a little unsure as to why he would ever go there.

“My birthday is in a month, and we’re all going to Swagger. Promise me.”

“We’ll see,” Liam said.

“Avery, promise me you’ll get him there?” Dash asked. He turned toward her, his arm slipping off her shoulder, and gave her a bright smile that made her insides melt, his eyes locking on hers. Their deep brown color made her want to get lost in them forever.

Her heart skipped a beat at his question. It wasn’t the way she had hoped to score an invite to a party with him, but after watching him flirt with another girl for the last half hour, she wasn’t going to complain. She wanted to be there, wanted the chance to dance the night away under all those lights. To get lost in those eyes even more. If what it took to make that happen was dragging Liam, then she was going to do it.

“Promise.”

* * *

“You’re from here, so explain something to me, please,” Liam said, popping a fried pickle into his mouth.

“I’m from North Carolina, not Georgia, but close enough for what you mean,” Avery answered.

“Maybe I’m missing something here, but is there a reason that when you order a veggie platter, it’s all fried? Okra, onion rings, pickles, green beans…all of it fried. We Irish like our chips, don’t get me wrong, but we tend to limit our fried veggies to potatoes and onions.”

Avery threw her head back in a laugh, the sound sending shock waves straight to his groin. He shifted slightly, trying to make the semi he was sporting less obvious. Although, if Avery continued with the laughter, that semi was going to be a full-on erection before he knew it.

“First off, frickles are God’s gift to us mortals,” she said, popping one into her mouth.

“Frickles?”

“Yup, that’s what we call fried pickles. And secondly, it’s a southern thing. If we can batter it and toss it in hot oil, we will. Veggies, meats, Oreos…”

“Oreos? Now that’s a bridge too far. I swear, I will never understand you Americans.”

“They are delicious! I promise. I know they sound gross, but they aren’t.” A small yawn escaped her, cutting off the last part of her statement. She covered her mouth quickly, a small blush creeping up her cheeks as if she couldn’t believe she’d done that.