Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 76586 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76586 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
While I hate my own personal shit pushed me harder out on the ice, it made for a great game. I got a goal and two assists and coupled with everything else, I was ready for bed by the time we returned to the hotel.
Except, after I got settled in and turned on the TV for a little background noise to fall asleep to, I couldn’t fucking sleep. While my body may have been done for the evening, my mind was in overdrive.
It’s why I’m entering the hotel restaurant and bar, now regretting not going out with the guys. But I’m fine with sitting by myself and having a drink or two, which will help numb the jumbled thoughts so I can sleep.
I’m thinking bourbon will do the trick.
It’s late and the restaurant is empty as I step into it from the hotel lobby. To the right is the bar which is one long unit that holds about fifteen barstools, while booths on the half wall behind that separate the area from the main restaurant. There’s a couple at one end of the bar with their heads bent close together in intimate conversation. It’s something Emory and I have done and I know how easy it is to get focused in on someone, lost to everything else.
I don’t sit on the opposite end, taking the very middle stool, which also happens to be right in front of the lone bartender. I can see there’s absolutely no recognition as to who I am, and that’s not unusual. Not everyone’s a hockey fan, but this is Los Angeles. They have two hockey teams and I wouldn’t expect one of their fans to know the faces of the other teams players unless they were the top echelon like a Bishop or a Tacker.
Doesn’t hurt my feelings at all and in fact, I like it. There’s something to be said for the hoopla that surrounds our appearances at The Sneaky Saguaro and the adulation that comes with it. But more often than not, I prefer not to be recognized so I can just be Jett Olsson the person, not the hockey player.
“What can I get you?” the bartender asks dully. That means he’s not a conversationalist, which I’m also thankful for. ESPN is up on one of the TV’s with subtitles and I’ll be happy to watch that.
“Let me get something on draft—I don’t care which—and a shot of Jack,” I tell him. I’m not a picky connoisseur of alcohol, and I like to try different beers. But Jack Daniels is my go-to when I want bourbon.
Efficiently, the beer is poured with minimal foam head and sat before me. Next comes a shot glass and the bartender pours it with flourish.
I slide my credit card across the bar and say, “Start a tab but don’t go anywhere just yet.”
The bartender watches as I pick up the shot of Jack, pour it easily down the back of my throat, and set it back down on the bar. I use my fingertips to push it toward him. “Hit me again.”
The bartender does as asked, but I don’t shoot this one down right away. The first one was just to wet my gullet and I doubt I’ll have another one after this, but for now, it’s there for when I want it.
I pick up the pint glass of pale colored beer, not even having bothered to ask what it is, and take a tiny sip as my gaze lifts to the TV.
Before it gets to the TV, it skims the mirror behind the bar and I see the reflection of someone I recognize in the booth behind me.
Twisting my neck, I look over my shoulder and see Riggs sitting there. He has a half empty glass of beer before him and he’s surfing on his phone.
Interesting opportunity here. Riggs, our proverbial loner, who has shown slight signs of opening up.
And now here he is, drinking alone in a bar, and well… so am I. I know he’d probably prefer me to leave him alone, but I’ve never really been all that respectful of a person’s space when I believe they shouldn’t be closed off to me. Riggs has some growth to do to be a full member of this team and it’s my duty to poke at his edges a bit.
At least that’s what I tell myself as I pick up my beer and shot glass and turn away from the bar.
Riggs doesn’t look up until I slide into the booth opposite him. His eyes flare only slightly to indicate surprise, but he’s surprised all the same. He must not have seen me walk into the bar.
“What’s up, man?” I say, setting both glasses on the table. I pick up the pint glass and take a sip.
“Not much,” he says, then nods down to my shot of bourbon. “Didn’t feel like partying with the guys?”