Page 19 of Body Check

“What’s his deal?” I ask Robby, nodding toward the team’s captain, who’s now swaying in his seat. “Does he typically get wasted the night before a game?”

My friend looks over his shoulder at the table, and then curses. “No. Definitely atypical.”

“Guess he’s taking the divorce pretty hard,” Patrice says.

“He’s married?” I can’t keep the incredulity out of my voice. That fucker stood there and watched me, and all the while he’s married to another woman…

“The divorce was finalized in the off-season,” Joaquin tells me. “His ex was a total see-you-next-Tuesday.” He hiccups and his cheeks flush as he covers his mouth with a wink. “I didn’t say that.”

“You’re not on camera,” Patrice says, patting his hand.

“No, only behind it.” He goes to drink his beer, but Robby pulls it away and shoves a bottle of water into his hand. “I don’t want this.”

“Too bad. Drink it anyway.” There’s a hint of steel in his voice.

“Ooh, yes Daddy,” Joaquin says, and all of us crack up, Robby most of all.

Our loud laughter draws the attention of the nearby tables. McKittrick looks up, his eyes narrowing on us.

On me.

A flare of heat rushes through me, warming me from the inside out. All of my nerves stand at attention, ready and waiting.

Fuck. Letting out a shallow breath, I push my chair back, the wood scraping the floor.

“I need some air,” I announce. “Be right back.”

Making my way through the crowd, I use the restroom and wash my hands. Staring at me in the mirror is a face I hardly recognize. My cheeks are flushed, my eyes bright and wild. And my hair—I don’t even know what’s going on with it.

Splashing some cool water on my face, I finger-comb my hair back into place. Satisfied I look presentable again, I open the bathroom door.

Only to run smack into a brick wall.

Wait, it’s not a wall. It’s a chest.

A very hard, muscular chest.

Jason McKittrick stares at me with confusion on his face. “What’re you doing in the men’s room?”

“This isn’t the men’s room.”

He scoffs. “‘Course it is.”

Taking his the elbow, I lead him from the cramped restroom. “Come on. Let’s get you some water.”

“I‘m fine. Not drunk,” he insists.

“I didn’t say you were.”

Except he’s weaving on his feet, his gait unsteady. He’s two hundred twenty pounds of solid muscle. There’s no way I can catch him when he undoubtedly falls.

Robby and Joaquin spot us, looking between themselves, before they both spring to their feet and rush over to us.

“Come on, Cap,” Joaquin says, diving under one of McKittrick’s arms. “We’ve got you.”

“Just needa piss,” the hockey player slurs.

Chuckling under his breath, Robby takes my place, swooping in to support his other side. “We’ll help you.”