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“You’re deceptively strong for such a small woman,” he snarks, chuckling at his own joke.
He’s obviously drunk and swaying on his feet. If he passes out, there’s no way I’ll be able to get him back to the hotel.
“Just keep it together, Anderson,” I mutter, not bothering to hide my irritation.
Though in his state, he couldn’t care less if I’m pissed. He doesn’t have a care in the world right now.
We exit the club, and the music becomes muffled behind the closed door. There’s a long line of people waiting to get inside. I see a few phones elevate to snap pictures when they recognize the hockey stud. I slide my arm around Sam’s waist to steady him and walk us to the side of the building to avoid prying eyes. After propping him against the wall, I order another rideshare.
“Five minutes out,” I mumble more to myself than to him.
I cross my arms over my chest for warmth and wait. The air is cold and damp, especially when the wind blows. Seattle looks gray most of the time. Tonight is no different.
Sam is leaning against the wall, watching me beneath hooded eyelids. The whites of his eyes are streaked with red, and he smells like a brewery. It reminds me of the first night we met.
He reaches out to run a finger along my neckline. I bat his hand away. He grins, but it’s sloppy. His tongue drags along his lower lip.
“Is that my sweatshirt?” he asks.
I glance down at my old Sinclair hoodie. “No.”
“Really?” he continues. “Because it looks like mine. You would look good in my sweatshirt.”
I roll my eyes.
“You would look good in nothing at all.”
I study him for a moment before narrowing my eyes. “Are these the kind of lines you throw at the women in there? Does this work for you?”
He chuckles, and I hate to admit that he looks incredibly sexy even though he’s one drink away from being incoherent.
“I don’t have to throw down game.” He slurs the words, but his arrogance comes through loud and clear. Not even alcohol can hide his ego. “In fact, I don’t have to do anything at all.”
And I know he’s telling the truth. I saw it with my own eyes in college. I remember the way my sister was clamoring for a night with him. It should make me bitter that he has the world at his feet just because he can skate, control a puck, and he’s pretty to look at. Men like him don’t have to work for things; they are handed to them.
But as I’m watching him right now, placing my hand out to steady his body when he nearly loses his balance, I don’t feel envy. I feel pity. Because even though he appears to have everything he could ever want, he seems lost and lonely. And no matter how many women are begging for a chance with him, at the end of the day, they are all strangers. Not one of them knows who he really is beneath the shiny exterior. None of them really want to know him.
And when I peek inside those red-rimmed eyes all these years later, they’re still beautifully empty and hollow, like he’s still missing … something.
I shiver when the cold penetrates my sweatshirt. Sam must notice because he pulls me into his arms. I resist and try to pull away, but he only tightens his hold.
“I know you’re cold,” he murmurs. His breath is warm against my forehead. “Stop being stubborn and stand still.”
I listen, for once, and allow the heat of his body to warm me. He smells like a combination of whiskey and that spicy cologne I smelled when I invaded his privacy the day I moved in. But the scent is even better when combined with his skin.
“Are you mad at me?” he asks, sounding surprisingly vulnerable, like my answer matters to him.
I’m sure it’s just the drinks talking.
“Yes,” I whisper honestly. “You lied to me.”
“I did,” he says, squeezing me tighter against his chest. “I was trying to prove a point.”
“And did you succeed?” I ask.
“I’m not sure.” His exhale is long and deep. “But I don’t want you to be mad at me.”
“Then, don’t do things that make me angry.”
