“Doesn’t matter what happened.” Louis takes his shot and sinks two solids. “Matters what it looks like. And it looks like you took her home and fucked her brains out.”
“Nick called me about it this morning,” Dyson adds. “Said your image will stay intact. Playboy Patterson, living his best life.”
“He could’ve called me directly,” I say.
After Nick retired from hockey, he began working at his sister’s marketing firm as vice president. Now he lives in a small town in Colorado with the love of his life, but he keeps his finger on the pulse when it comes to my reputation. He’s practically like my older brother. So are these two.
Louis sinks the eight ball and ends the game.
I take a long sip of bourbon and let it burn. “Not the first time that narrative has circulated.”
“You sound frustrated.” Dyson tosses me a cue. “Like someone pissed in your cereal.”
I catch the cue and move to the table, sizing up my options. We rack the balls, and he lets me take the first shot. Solids.
I line up an easy shot on the three ball for the corner pocket. It’s something I’ve made a thousand times. The stick connects, and the ball rolls wide, missing by two inches.
Louis whistles low. “That was tragic.”
“Shut up.”
“No, really. That was genuinely painful to watch.” He leans against the wall, swirling his bourbon before grabbing the pool stick. He sinks three balls before missing. “I’ve seen you run a table half drunk. What’s up?”
“Nothing.” I move around the table, looking for another angle, but my head isn’t in it. Every time I try to focus, I see brown eyes and feel fingers twisting in my shirt and hear that sound she made when I pressed her against the wall.
I miss my next shot too.
Dyson and Louis exchange a look that makes me want to break the cue over my knee.
“All right.” Dyson refills his glass. “Who is she?”
“Who’s who?”
“The woman you’re not telling us about. The one who’s got you missing shots a toddler could make. The brunette in the photos?”
I actually laugh at them. “You’re mistaken.”
“Bullshit.” Louis sinks two more balls before straightening up. “I know that look. It’s the one a man wears when he’s losing his mind over someone he can’t have. Trust me, I can recognize it.”
“Or you’re a pompous asshole who’s surrounded by yes men?”
“Oh, I’m that too,” he offers.
Dyson smirks. “I think Louis is onto something. I’ve not seen you like this in a long time.”
I straighten up my stance. “Drop it.”
Dyson’s voice loses the teasing edge. “Don’t insult us by pretending you’re fine.”
I stare at the green felt of the pool table, trying to figure out how much to say. These two are the closest thing I have to friends outside the team, people who don’t give a shit about my stats or my contract or my brand deals. They just know me.
“It’s complicated,” I say.
“It always is.” Louis gestures with his glass. “Spill.”
I take another drink, letting the bourbon settle my nerves. “There’s someone. Someone I’ve wanted for a long time. Someone I can’t have.”
“Why can’t you have her?” Dyson grabs the bottle and refills our glasses like a perfect host.