Dirty Score, A Rough Riders Hockey Novel(11)

There was no room for sweet now. He would twist sweet into hurt. He’d done it dozens of times over the last year, and if she was going to get over him, she was going to have to stuff the sweet, take what she needed, and walk away.

Finally walk away.

Just like he had.

Then, in future relationships, maybe she wouldn’t be accused of things like being more interested in hockey than sex. Or scheduling their vacations around the Rough Riders’ travel schedule. Or living vicariously through her brother.

Or being in love with a ghost.

Rafe did that barely visible get-the-hell-over-here-and-do-something head-tilt thing. The familiar movement reduced the year between them to a day, making her feel like all her hurt and frustration was unreasonable, petty, childish. Suddenly, she wasn’t so sure she had the strength to do what she needed to do.

Mia licked her lips and typed: Just leave if you want to leave.

Rafe replied: You know I can’t.

Technically, he could. He could stand up, put one foot in front of the other, and walk out the front door. But she knew Rafe’s heart wouldn’t let him. If he walked out on this woman, he would be showing not only disrespect for her, but for the Rough Riders fans. Specifically, the season ticket holders. And ultimately, his action would reflect poorly on the whole team.

Rafe was nothing if not dependable—to his team, to Tate, to Joe.

She glanced at the woman across from Rafe. Baywatch was still talking. Even though their food had been sitting in front of them for at least twenty minutes, even though Rafe had finished half his dinner before abandoning the meal, the woman with him hadn’t touched hers. Though she did manage to sip down quite a bit of wine in between words. Which might account for her lack of irritation over Rafe’s texting and inattentiveness.

Mia took a breath and typed: You’ll owe me.

Fine. Anything you want. I’m dying here.

She bit her lip. Anything I want?

Yes.

You’re sure?

Mia. ANYTHING.

“Okay,” she said to herself in a be-careful-what-you-ask-for tone.

Mia turned, picked up her pineapple mojito, and pounded the remaining half of the drink. She took two full minutes to put a plan together, then turned to Cole and put her hand on his arm. “Hey, look, Rafe’s here.”

Cole’s gaze drifted from the television, his frown immediate. “Who?”

“Your teammate? Rafe Savage? Let’s go say hi.”

“No way.” He pulled away from her touch. “That guy’s been a jerk since the day I walked into the locker room.”

“You’ve been doing this a long time. You know it’s no fun getting a new guy at the end of the season.”

“But I was never an asshole.”

Right. It’s always someone else’s kid. “I’m sure you weren’t. But you understand the stress, and look, you’re stuck with the Riders, right? And admit it, you were pretty miserable at Top Shelf tonight. If you want to make friends and enjoy this phase of your career, you’re going to have to make some kind of effort. With the more resistant guys, like Rafe, you might have to take the high road and make the first gesture.”

Her phone vibrated with a message. She glanced down to see Rafe’s What is this? A fucking conference? Just walk away from the guy.

She growled and hammered out a return message. Stop being an asshole or I’ll leave you with the babbling Baywatch babe until your ears bleed.

After she sent it, she cut a hard you’re-pushing-your-luck glare at Rafe. When he lifted a scowl from his phone and saw the look on her face, he rolled his eyes and refocused on his plate.

She looked at Cole. “If you don’t want to make the gesture, how about grabbing the girl?”

“What?”

“The girl. His date. Rafe’s dying to get away from her.”

Cole’s gaze darted to Baywatch. “She’s a walking wet dream, but there’s no way Savage is going to let me near her. He couldn’t shut up in the locker room about how he was going to be fucking her all night.”

The knife in Mia’s gut twisted. She was about ready to ditch her fuck-him-and-forget-him plan, bail out of this godforsaken hotel, hail a taxi, and catch the next flight to Bermuda.

Fuck men. Fuck her career. Fuck life, for that matter.

Barefoot in Bermuda, sans men and all the trouble they brought, sounded like one damn good plan.

Her phone vibrated, and Mia closed her eyes. So help her God, if Rafe said one more wrong thing…

She took a breath, opened her eyes, and focused on the phone.

I’m sorry. I’m exhausted and sore and my ears won’t be the only thing bleeding soon because I’m pretty sure my brain imploded half an hour ago. The first thing I should have said when I saw you is how beautiful you look and how much I’ve missed you.