Page 51 of Never Pucking Ending

I tell Head the only thing I can. “At least you’ll be able to train over the summer and start next season.”

All he does is press his lips together and offer me a stiff nod in acknowledgment. I get it. He’s pissed that he can’t finish the season out, but at least it’s not permanent. We’ve all been there.

Our waitress collects the wine glass from the bar and walks it over to Belle’s table. I don’t know what she tells them, but Belle’s spine straightens as she searches the room. It takes her less than five seconds to spot me, which is impressive considering the number of people here. All five of us wave, catching Dane’s attention too.

The waitress walks away, dealing with her other tables for the night oblivious to the dirty look I’m getting because of the gift.

Moskins laughs. “Do your balls hurt? It looks like she’s trying to rip them off with her mind.”

I don’t break eye contact from her the entire time. It isn’t going to be me who backs down from this. I notice the way Dane looks between Belle and me, his eyes travelling back and forth before he says something that snaps her out of the stare down.

Dawson says, “I’d be so pissed if I were him, but he looks…fine. Are we sure this isn’t work related? He’s carrying a man purse. I don’t know how many men are willing to carry something like that outside of work.”

Moskins scoffs. “It’s a briefcase.”

“It’s a canvas bag,” Head chirps in, all of them staring hard at the bag Dane put on the floor that he hasn’t touched once since they sat down.

A thoughtful noise rises from Raymond’s throat. “It’s a man purse,” he decides.

Dawson has a point though. Dane doesn’t look angry. He doesn’t seem tense or irritated that I sent Belle a drink. I’m not sure what they’re talking about, but he shrugs and nods before she scrapes her chair back and starts walking over.

“Oh shit,” I hear Head murmur under his breath as she makes it through the maze of people and tables and waitstaff and stops directly in front of us.

I smile at her. “Hi.”

The four other men beside me mimic the greeting, leaving Belle gaping at us.

“What are you doing here?” she asks, her voice deceptively calm for the murderous expression she’s pinning me with.

I point at Richie. “We needed to get Head out of the house. Thought dinner sounded good. Who doesn’t love Italian?”

Moskins nods, and I’m pretty sure Dawson says something that sounds like agreement.

Belle crosses her arms over her chest. “You barely like eating Italian food in the off season because it’s always cooked in olive oil and contains too many carbs.”

That’s true, but it’s not what I say. “Olive oil is good for your heart.”

She pinches the bridge of her nose.

“Plus,” I add, before she can reply, “Italian is Head’s favorite. Don’t you think he deserves a pick-me-up?”

Exasperation doesn’t describe the way her hands drop to her sides, and she deadpans. “His favorite food is Mexican. Especially those nasty California burritos with the French fries shoved inside them. Which I don’t even think can be considered Mexican.”

Head doesn’t even try lying. “I do fucking love those.”

I shoot him a look as if to say not helping.

Belle’s stare pierces my soul if that’s possible. “I cannot believe you,” she hisses, ignoring the four hockey players listening in on the conversation. “You knew I would be here tonight. This has nothing to do with Richie or his injury.”

I could deny it, but I don’t. “He didn’t pull your chair out for you,” I say instead.

She blinks at me, speechless.

So, I continue. “And he only got a drink for himself. You don’t like beer. You prefer sweeter drinks.”

I know the guys’ attention are ping-ponging between Belle and I, but I don’t care. If I didn’t want them in my business, I wouldn’t have invited them. Getting Head out of the house is only part of the reason we’re all here. She knows it, I know it, and so do the boys.

Belle stands straighter, fisting her hands at her sides. “I didn’t order a drink because I’m driving home. You know since he didn’t pick me up. Because this is not a date. He’s not obligated to open doors for me or walk on the street-side of the sidewalk or pull out my chair. He can get a beer if he wants one. And I can just get water if that’s all I want.”