Page 29 of Twisted Needs

“You would kiss me if we were still in D.C.” he retorts.

I shake my head apologetically. Guiltily. Painfully.

“But we’re not,” I whisper. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

“Don’t fucking sweetheart me.” Anders lets out a huff as he slides down off the counter. “Whatever. Have fun playing with Luca tomorrow,” he mutters pointedly. “Waste of my fuckin’ time.”

He starts walking off, but I close my hand around his arm and stop him. “Hey,” I murmur quietly. “C’mon. Don’t leave it at this.”

“No.” Anders looks back at me with a glare. “Quit playing in my face.”

“I’m not⁠—”

His eyes narrow. “You’re too old to be acting like this.”

And I don’t think I’ve ever been more stunned. And ashamed…because he’s right.

I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. Anders just stares at me with this pitying look, which sets something off inside me. There’s something wrong with me. Now I’m absolutely certain. I don’t take to being put in my place very easily, and I don’t think anyone truly has been able to shut me up that quickly.

“Okay,” I finally nod. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

“Good.” He looks me up and down once more before he walks off without another word.

CHAPTER 9

GRAY AREA

PARKER

Verona’s is one of my favorite hidden gems in the city. Luca and I are probably the youngest people who have ever stepped foot through these doors, which the old bikers in the back corner love to remind us of every single time we come. There’s a group of them who practically live at the pool table near the jukebox, and last winter one of them promised I could join their motorcycle club when I turned sixty-five. I still don’t know if he was joking or genuinely trying to recruit me. Either way, I’ve spent enough nights at Verona’s to know exactly where Dave keeps the good scotch and which booths wobble if you lean too hard against the table.

Dave always leaves two stools open for Luca and I after home games. He claims it’s because we tip well, but I think he just likes hearing Luca bitch about hockey for three hours straight.

“You seeing anybody lately or what?” Luca asks me for the third time this month, dragging his beer across the damp ring it left on the bar. “Because I’m telling you right now, if you hit forty still living like this, Emelie is gonna stage a fucking intervention.”

I snort into my drink. “You say that like I’m doing naughty things in an alley.”

“You’re worse,” Luca laughs. “You’re emotionally unavailable.”

“That’s rich coming from the guy with three kids.”

“Exactly. I evolved.”

“No, you just discovered you had a breeding kink.”

Luca grins into his beer. He’s looser tonight than usual, still riding the high from seeing his old teammates after the game even though Minnesota lost.

The trade and his big move softened him in weird ways. He still looks intimidating as hell with tattoos crawling down both arms, crazy broad shoulders, and some blond curls shoved beneath a cap. Now he talks about his daughters every five minutes like a suburban dad trapped inside the body of a NHL enforcer.

“Em thinks I’m trying to knock her up again on purpose,” he says proudly.

“She’s probably right.”

“She told me if I get her pregnant after thirty-seven she’s drugging me and driving me to the clinic herself.”

“You still have time to try for your boy.”

Luca points at me with his beer bottle. “See? That’s what I’m saying. You encourage me.”