The Score

“No prob.” I wasn’t planning on drinking tonight, anyway. I have rehearsal at seven a.m., and a pounding hangover will make it hard for me to cry on command. In the opening scene alone, my character wails like a newborn three times. “Should we go to another bar, though?” I ask hopefully. “Maybe the one in Munsen?”

“Why would we do that?”

I shrug. “The hockey crowd can get kinda rowdy.”

“I could use a little rowdy,” she admits. “Trevor is great, but he’s not much into partying anymore. He’s in bed by ten o’clock every night. Even on weekends.” Her bottom lip sticks out. “Maybe that’s another reason I should end it, huh?”

“Look, I’d never dream of telling you what to do,” I say gently. “And I’m not saying you should break up with someone just because their party days are behind them. But you’re in your senior year of college, hon. You shouldn’t be going to bed at ten if you don’t want to. You should enjoy this last year of freedom, in this weird place where you’re an adult but not an adult, know what I mean? Save the early bedtimes for next year when you become a card-carrying member of the real world.”

A pensive look crosses her expression. I can tell she’s absorbing the advice, and I hope she reaches a decision that makes her happy. God knows I’ve been dealing with tough decisions lately too. Breaking up with Sean. Figuring out where I want to take my acting career.

Walking into a bar to willingly spend time with the guy I had a one-night stand with…

Shit, what am I doing coming to the bar? Nothing good can be gained from seeing Dean tonight. Worse case, he’ll accidentally let something slip, and everyone will know that we hooked up. Best case, he’ll flirt shamelessly with me and just be plain annoying.

Since Malone’s is the only alcohol game in town, it’s the go-to place for both locals and Briar students every day of the week. If you show up after nine, you’re looking at standing room only. Meg and I waltz in at ten-thirty, and it’s like stepping into a sauna crammed with hundreds of sweaty bodies. The main room is jam-packed. I can barely see the counter because too many bodies are swarming in front of it, and the row of booths in the raised sections on either side of the main area are all occupied.

“I want to order a drink!” Megan shouts over the music. Some rock song I don’t recognize is blasting from the speakers. If Garrett Graham were here, he could probably tell me the name of the song, who’s singing it, and what year it was released. Hannah’s boyfriend has a hard-on for classic rock. I wouldn’t be surprised to find out he makes Hannah play Lynyrd Skynyrd role-playing games in bed.

We’re about to head for the bar when a familiar voice rises above the music. “Allie-Cat! Over here!”

I shift my head to see Dean waving at me from a large booth to my right. I don’t know how he spotted me in the throng of people. I hadn’t even texted him to say I was coming, so he’s either got exceptional Spidey senses or he’s been monitoring the door like a creeper.

Megan and I link arms to avoid getting separated and make our way through the sea of bodies. I inhale a gust of perfume from a platinum blonde in a short skirt. I manage to survive the perfume assault only to breathe in a cloud of something more potent from the guy beside her. My eyes start to water, and I almost turn around to tell him to go easy on the Axe body spray before he kills someone.

“Look, Fitzy, girls!” Dean announces when Megan and I reach the booth. He rapidly addresses the other guys. “Quick, make room for them before they disappear.”

Laughter breaks out, and I notice most of the players are grinning at one guy in particular, who I’ve seen before at some of the hockey parties Hannah dragged me to. I think his name is Colin, but I usually hear him being referred to as either Fitz or Fitzy. He’s a big guy with messy brown hair, dark scruff on his face, and what looks like a tattoo peeking from the collar of his shirt. I suspect he’s definitely rocking a chest tat, because I’ve seen him in a T-shirt, and I remember him having full sleeves on both arms.

The boys shuffle around to accommodate us. Megan slides in next to a guy with a buzz cut. He introduces himself as Hollis. I squeeze in between Tucker, who’s engrossed on his phone, and Pierre, one of the French-Canadians on the team. He greets me with a smile, and a pair of adorable dimples pop out. Rounding out the group are two players I’ve never met. In his heavy accent, Pierre introduces them as Wilkes and Ekberg.

Dean, who is across from me on the other side of Hollis, winks when our eyes lock. “You made it. Didn’t think you would.”

“We were in the neighborhood,” I say lightly.

“Glad you were, because this was becoming a total sausage fest. Seriously, the birthday boy didn’t invite a single chick tonight.”

“Fitzy is allergic to women,” Hollis says helpfully.

The birthday boy—or man, rather, because there’s nothing boyish about this guy—rolls his eyes. “I didn’t realize that wanting to celebrate my birthday with the guys was such a crime.”

“Did you even stop to consider the implications?” Dean shoots back. “What about the time-honored birthday blowjob? Did ya think of that? Or do you expect one of us to do it?”

“I’m sure Pierre’s down,” Hollis pipes up. When the French-Canadian gives him the finger, he smiles sweetly. “What? I thought that’s what you guys did up in Quebec, no? Blow your buddies while whispering sweet French nothings to them?”

Pierre snorts. “You’re from San Francisco. I’m pretty sure that’s the blow-your-buddies capital of the world.”

A round of smack talk ensues, which is cut short when a frazzled waitress appears to serve Megan and me. Meg orders a vodka cranberry. I ask for a glass of water.

“Water?” Dean mocks after the waitress dashes off. “You sure you don’t want anything else, baby doll? Maybe…hmmm…how about tequila? I always pegged you for a tequila girl.”

I narrow my eyes at him. Fortunately, nobody else puts much stock in the comment. Why would they? It’s not like any of them know that tequila is the reason I wound up in bed with Dean. The only person who knows is Dean, who promised to keep his mouth shut about it.

But…the teeny smirk on his face is making me antsy.

Why do I get the feeling he’s about to spill the beans?