Page 18 of King of Pain (Damaged Hearts #1)

Hungry Eyes

Anthony

It’s been three weeks since that first night we hung out at Chance’s apartment.

We’ve fallen into an easy rhythm—grabbing beers, talking trash about each other’s sports, and finding excuses to hang out.

It’s almost ridiculous how quickly we’ve clicked.

He’s become one of the few people I feel comfortable around, which is saying something.

“No, man. I get that you think it’s the toughest sport with the most injuries, but I’m telling you, football is harder,” I fire at him from across the table.

Chance leans back in the booth we’re occupying at my favorite pizza and wings spot, smirking as he dunks a chicken wing into a pool of ranch dressing. “You’re out of your mind. You’ve got breaks between every play. Hockey is nonstop. And the hits? On skates? Twice as brutal.”

I shake my head, laughing as I polish off my own wing. “Yeah, but we’re running full speed into each other. You think your little boards are tough? Try getting flattened by a two-hundred-and-fifty-pound linebacker who’s basically a freight train in human form.”

“Freight train? Please,” Chance says, rolling his eyes. “Your game stops every thirty seconds. Hockey’s three straight periods of chaos. It’s not even close.”

I shake my head at the huge grin he’s flashing at me and try to keep my pulse in check.

Every time we hang out is a reminder of the things I need to keep pushed down.

Things I shouldn’t act on. Like now, as he leans forward, his forearms resting on the table, the muscles in his arms flexing those damn sexy tattoos with every move.

His smile is easy, his laugh genuine, and I… I need to get a grip.

“So,” he says, casual. “We’ve hung out a bit now, and you haven’t mentioned anyone special. You… uh, you got a girlfriend… boyfriend?”

I pause with a wing halfway to my mouth. Why did he ask that? What do I even say? I drop the wing back in the basket and take a long drink of my beer to cover my nerves.

“No. No, not seeing anyone,” I manage to cough out after setting my beer back on the table. “What about you?”

Chance shakes his head. “Not anymore. I did, back in Boston. We weren’t very serious.”

“Oh,” I say, feeling my heart squeeze for reasons I can’t risk analyzing right now. “What happened, if you don’t mind me asking?”

He shrugs. “We were friends for years and then friends with benefits. They were thinking of moving out here with me, then backed out last minute.”

I notice he’s leaving out pronouns. I’m dying to ask, but that might prompt him to return the question, and I’m just not ready for that. “That’s rough, man. I’m sorry,” I say instead.

“It’s whatever,” he says. “Like I said, we weren’t that serious. But moving out here alone… it sucked at first. Maybe it’s for the best, you know? Fresh start, new people.”

Then he pauses, looking directly at me. “More interesting people.”

Then the fucker winks at me. Or he has hot sauce in his eye. That’s gotta be it. Yeah, he sauced a retina. I’m sure of it.

A few beers later, we’re still talking, and thankfully the conversation has moved to music and the latest trending videos on social media. The bar is loud, but it’s easy to tune out the noise when it’s just the two of us.

Chance excuses himself to go to the bathroom. And as they’ve done on countless occasions since I met him, my eyes betray me, trailing after him and locking on his backside.

Jesus.

“That is definitely a hockey ass,” I mutter under my breath, immediately wishing I could slap the words back into my mouth.

What is wrong with me? And who does he think he is, strutting away all cool and confident, just slinging that ass all over this fine establishment?

He’s going to knock a beer pitcher off someone’s table.

I take another swig of my beer, trying to shove the thoughts away. This is fine. Totally normal. Just a guy appreciating another guy’s… athletic build. Nothing to see here.

When Chance slides back into the booth, he tops off our beers with what’s left in the pitcher. There’s an ease about him tonight, like he’s getting settled into his life here.

I admire it.

“So,” I start, curious about the spark I’ve noticed in him lately. “How are your classes going? You’re taking art, right?”

Chance lights up, his blue eyes brightening as he leans forward.

“Yeah. I mean, the general classes blow, but the art classes have been… incredible. I didn’t even realize how much I’d love it.

Painting, especially. There’s something about pouring everything you’re feeling into a canvas—letting the brush just move with whatever comes out of you. It’s therapeutic, you know?”

I nod, watching him talk with so much passion. It’s infectious. “I can tell you’re into it,” I say. “You’ve got that look people get when they’ve found something they’re meant to do.”

“Maybe,” he says with a small, thoughtful smile. “I don’t know if I’m meant to do it as a living, but it feels right for right now. It’s helping me figure out who I am, piece by piece.”

I stay quiet, letting his words settle. There’s something inspiring in the way he talks about his passion, like he’s discovered a whole new part of himself.

“What about you?” Chance asks, shifting the conversation. “How do you feel about this being your last season playing football?”

I take a sip of my beer, thinking it over. “Honestly? I’m grateful for it. Football’s given me a lot. Discipline, a way to escape, a way to channel things. But I’m not devastated that it’s ending. I’ve been preparing myself for this. It’s just time.”

Chance nods, his expression soft. “That’s a good way to look at it. Not everyone gets to leave something like that on their own terms, you know?”

“Yeah,” I say. “I’m lucky that way.”

There’s a pause, comfortable but weighted, before Chance asks, “What about your family? Do they come to your games? Are they close by?”

I hesitate, the familiar knot forming in my chest. “I don’t really talk to my family,” I admit, keeping my voice steady. “We’re not… close.”

Chance’s brow furrows, but he doesn’t push. “I get that. Sometimes family can be complicated.”

I take a deep breath, deciding to offer a little more. “They didn’t protect me from something they knew about. Something they could’ve stopped. And they don’t have any remorse about it. In fact, they blame me. I don’t have space in my life for them.”

The weight of the words hangs in the air between us, but Chance doesn’t look away. Instead, he nods, his gaze full of understanding. “That’s fair. You’ve got to protect your peace.”

I’m not quite sure why, but I find myself opening myself up to him without even realizing I’m doing it. It feels natural. Comfortable. I’ve never experienced that. Not even Jen has been able to pull the things out of me that Chance has in a few short weeks.

I clear my throat, wanting to steer the conversation somewhere lighter.

“How are you liking it at Devil Records,” I ask.

“It’s pretty fucking great, actually. I’m surrounded by vinyl and… beautiful things.”

And he’s got more sauce in his eye, apparently.

“And Jen’s a character,” he continues, “what is she studying?”

“She’s finishing law school. That’s why we needed you. She can’t work as many shifts this semester,” I say. “But yeah, she’s been hell-bent on becoming a lawyer since she was a kid.”

Chance lets out a low whistle. “A lawyer? Yeah, I feel sorry for anyone caught on the opposing side of her counsel.”

I chuckle. “She’s going to be a force for sure. She graduated high school at sixteen so she could start her pre-law undergrad early.”

Then, I give him a smile and tease, “She’s wicked smaht,” in my worst Boston accent.

Chance lets out a loud—almost surprised—laugh. “Very funny, Pacini. My accent isn’t that bad.”

“Actually, yeah, I noticed your accent is subtle. I picked up on it your first day at Devil, but it’s not as noticeable as other people I’ve met from Boston,” I tell him.

He just shrugs. “It comes out more when I get excited.”

And then he bats those fucking mile-long eyelashes at me and slowly runs his finger over the rim of his beer glass.

Satan, take the wheel.

He tilts his head as if something has just dawned on him, and asks, “So, if Jen’s some kind of genius, why didn’t she go to an Ivy League school?”

I shoot him a devious grin and say, “You mean like Hahvahd?” Again, doing Boston proud.

Chance barks another laugh then points at me. “That’s two. You get three. Use your last one wisely.”

I snicker and answer his question. “Anyways, Jen. You know how she is. She wanted nothing to do with elitist snobs. She wants to fight for the little people—and she was afraid of getting sucked into that world. Plus, she loves it here. And she’ll do great no matter what.”

Chance nods. “I’m sure she will. She’s got that killer instinct. You know, she’d probably get along with my neighbor Lexi. Or they’d kill each other. They’re both strong, feisty, no-nonsense types.”

“You’re surrounded by a lot of strong women, huh?” I tease.

“Apparently,” he says with a laugh. “Not a bad thing, though. Keeps me on my toes.”

The conversation flows easily, the noise of the bar fading into the background as we talk.

“Do you miss Boston yet?” I ask, genuinely curious.

Chance shakes his head, his expression contemplative. “Besides missing my mom, not really. I thought I would. I thought I’d feel this pull to go back, but… I don’t. It’s like leaving Boston let me breathe for the first time in years. Arizona’s growing on me.”

Wink.

They really need to do something about how easily sauce can get in someone’s eyes here.

“I’m glad,” I say quietly. “You deserve that.”

He looks at me for a beat, something unspoken in his gaze, before breaking into a small smile. “I should probably get home to Little G,” he says, draining the last of his beer. “He’s probably plotting my demise for leaving him alone this long.”

I laugh, pushing back from the table. “Yeah, don’t piss off the pup. He might eat your art supplies after you let him out.”

“Don’t even joke.” Chance says with mock horror.

We settle the bill and head out to wait for our Uber drivers, tonight’s conversation lingering in my mind long after I’m dropped back at my dorm. Chance has a way of making even the simplest moments feel meaningful. And tonight, I find myself thinking how easy it is to let my guard down around him.

Chance Sullivan might be my undoing.

And maybe that’s exactly what I need.