Page 19 of Ruled Out

“Nah, later. At Riley’s Bar maybe. We can step away from the guys for a second.”

“I’m not going out,” I reply, pushing back away from him, ready to start the next phase in the warm-up.

“The fuck you’re not. Kate, Luna, and Felicity are there tonight since we got a sitter, and you are a part of this team, apart of our group. It’s been too long since we all went out like old times.”

“Not up for it,” I bite out, my bad mood getting the better of me while I focus on rounding up pucks.

“You’re coming.” Zach comes to a stop beside me, spraying ice.

“Well, now, our captain and enforcer has spoken, so get out of that one, Callaghan.” Jensen smirks.

Looking between them both, I prop my hands on my hips. “Why are you so fucking bothered? I need a night to myself.”

“You’ve had enough of those lately,” Jensen counters.

All the guys know I’ve had my battles and that my childhood wasn’t the best, putting it lightly. But they have no idea about my secret drinking. But the worse my drinking gets, the harder it is to keep hidden, especially from an intuitive Jensen. I know Coach has kept what he knows between himself, my therapist, and our GM, but it’s only a matter of time before the fucked-up Jessie literally fucks up on the ice.

“Put your postgame pants and shirt on after the game, Jessie. I want you at Riley’s for at least an hour,” Zach insists. “No excuses.”

“Hasyour barber gone on strike or something?” Kate—Jensen’s wife and a scary-as-hell litigation lawyer—sits herself down opposite me in our usual private booth at the back of our regular postgame hideout, Riley’s Bar.

“Still as bratty as ever, Mrs. Jones,” I retort and run my hand along the scruff of my jaw.

She’s not wrong; I look like shit.

Since Jensen finally convinced Kate that they were each other’s endgame and not enemies, I’ve seen more of her than I ever did in the previous years we’ve been a part of the same friend group, even though I’ve always lingered on the fringes.

“Look, all I’m saying is, the NHL pays well enough for you to afford a razor, right?” She smiles around the rim of her wineglass.

“Or better still, maybe do a commercial deal for men’s grooming. I could see you in front of your mirror, smiling away, while some cheesy song played,” Felicity—Kate’s best friend and also a lawyer—adds.

I lean forward on my forearms and eye her with a quirked brow, my jovial mask sliding right into place. “Your British accent is fading. You’re starting to sound American.”

She throws a hand to her chest and leans back in the booth. “Really?” Shrugging a shoulder, she looks around the bar—no doubt for her husband, Jon. “So long as it’s only his accent and not his bad jokes that rub off on me, I’ll be good.”

Jensen slides in next to Kate and immediately kisses the top of her head, sending a pink flush to her cheeks. Never did I think this woman would melt for any guy and definitely not for the former bad boy and my best friend, but maybe anything is possible if it’s truly meant to be.

My attention immediately drifts from the conversation about the game we just won tonight and across the room.

A woman in a red coat stands in the main bar area, talking to a couple of friends. I know it isn’t Mia the second my eyes see the woman’s long brown hair, but disappointment still rolls through me.

She turns her head over her shoulder, locking her brown eyes on mine. She’s pretty and definitely my type, but other than appreciating how she looks, I feel nothing. I might as wellbe staring straight at a blank wall since there’s zero physical reaction.

Quickly, I avert my gaze and immediately find another pair of brown eyes.

“All okay there, man?” Jensen knocks his beer glass against mine. I haven’t touched a drop from the moment he set it down in front of me.

“Yeah, just not thirsty.”

I could easily be on my third drink by now, but tonight, I’m trying to be strong because the second I taste this beer, it’ll be too late. I’m all in with no going back until I wake up on my bathroom floor the next morning.

For me, the worst thing about alcohol addiction is being sufficiently aware of my triggers, but too fucking weak to resist.

And that’s how I feel when I pour myself a drink—weak. In that second when I put the glass to my lips, I know this decision is on me, and so are my actions that follow. The pounding head and fucked-up mentality—I’m answerable for it all.

Alcohol physically poisons your body, but its true toxicity manifests in what it does to your self-esteem. It robs you of everything.

And in my mom’s case, her hope.