Page 2

CHAPTER TWO

Coulton leaned his head forward, relishing the hot water on sore back muscles. Following this afternoon’s game, he’d spent an hour doing his postgame workout and stretches to warm down, before hitting the showers.

The Stingrays won, but Coulton wasn’t sure how much credit he could take for that W. He’d let in three goals, struggling to find his rhythm and to get his head in the game—literally.

Fortunately, his teammates had been on fire, Tank and Blake both sinking two goals apiece, while the rookie, Lucas, gave them the fifth to put them up by two when the last buzzer sounded.

Coulton bent his neck side to side a couple times, working out the kinks, while silently kicking his own ass for letting any goals get by him at all.

Typically, he didn’t have a problem shutting down the outside world when he was out on the ice. In the arena, the only thing that ever mattered was him keeping the puck out of the net, and that was his single focus.

Today, other things crept in, distracting him.

Actually, just one thing.

A beautiful woman with tatted arms, a nose ring, thick dark hair, and piercing blue eyes, who cussed like a sailor and wielded a baseball bat like Babe Ruth.

It had been a week since his impromptu visit to Mick’s Tavern. Seven days, during which his fascination for the badass bartender seemed to have crossed the line from attraction to obsession. The team had been on the road four days this week, so he hadn’t had the opportunity to drop by the tavern again.

That was probably a good thing, because he wasn’t even sure if he should go. He’d enjoyed talking to Ainsley, and while she had been friendly on the surface, the woman had sent out some pretty hardcore don’t get too close vibes. He felt like he should respect those, but instead, his curiosity was piqued.

Coulton turned off the water and reached for his towel, trying for the millionth time to put Ainsley out of his mind because this was getting ridiculous.

“Hey, Moore. Get your head out of your ass,” Tank said, rinsing shampoo out of his hair. “I’ve been saying your name for a full minute. What the hell are you thinking about?”

“Nothing,” Coulton lied. He and Tank were good friends, so he could tell his teammate about the bartender who’d been consuming his thoughts lately. In fact, it might be nice to have someone to talk to about her.

The reason he didn’t was because he knew exactly what Tank would say. He would tell Coulton to go back to the bar, take Ainsley home, and fuck her out of his system.

Because that was always Tank’s answer when it came to female concerns. Apparently in his world, one tumble between the sheets was all he needed with a woman before he was good to move on to the next.

Coulton wasn’t wired that way. He was the king of long relationships. Like loooooong ones. So long, he’d reached the ripe old age of thirty-two and had only seriously dated two women. Sure, there’d been the occasional hookups because…he had needs. But those one- or two- or few-night stands were few and far between.

Jocelyn had been his high school girlfriend, and when he said high school, he meant all of it, the whole shebang, ninth to twelfth grade. After graduation, it ended because he bounced around the junior league for a while, moving from city to city until he was signed to play professionally with Vancouver.

He met Evelyn, his last girlfriend, while living in Canada, and he’d dated her for five years. If he hadn’t been traded to the Stingrays, Coulton didn’t doubt they’d still be together. Instead, the relationship ended fairly soon after his move to the other side of the continent.

Since moving to Baltimore two years earlier, Coulton had gone out on at least a dozen dates, but none of those had advanced to a second…or even to the bedroom. Which meant he’d been living like a goddamn monk for twenty-four months, his acts of intimacy limited to shower time spent with Rosey Palmer and her five sisters. His masturbation game was strong.

So perhaps his keen interest in Ainsley was purely physical. There was no denying the instant sexual attraction he’d felt for her. Maybe his body was doing the thinking and he’d be right to adopt Tank’s philosophy this time around.

“You’ve got something on your mind,” Tank pressed. “I can tell.”

Coulton shrugged, because the truth was he didn’t have time for one of Tank’s lectures on how it was bad for a man’s health to go so long without sex. When he’d admitted to his teammate a few months ago about his painfully long dry spell, Tank’s eyes had nearly bugged out of his head, and he’d said—with unshakable conviction—that if Coulton didn’t start having sex soon, his dick was going to wither and fall off due to lack of use.

One time on the receiving end of that conversation had been enough.

Sure, Tank was a lot to take, but during Coulton’s time in Baltimore, the man had become a good friend—along with his teammates Blake, Victor, and Preston. So good, it wasn’t unusual for them to spend as much time together off the ice as they did on it, gathering at each other’s apartments for movie or game nights or blowing off steam over a pitcher of Natty Boh at Pat’s Pub.

“I swear I’m okay,” Coulton said, offering his friend a smaller piece of what was bothering him. “Just pissed that I let those three goals in.”

Tank slapped him on the shoulder as the two of them walked out of the showers, towels wrapped around their waists. “As always, Eeyore, you’re focusing on the negative. You also had at least a dozen wicked saves. So give yourself a break.”

Coulton appreciated Tank’s pep talk. “Thanks, bro.”

“I’m heading to Pat’s Pub with Preston and Lucas. Wanna join us?” Tank asked.

Coulton shook his head. “Can’t. Gotta get Slade home.”

Coulton had brought his Little Brother, Slade, to the afternoon game, tucking the kid in the team box with McKenna Bailey. McKenna worked in the Stingrays’ administrative offices as the team’s director of social media marketing. She was young and new to the position, but Coulton really liked her vision for the team and the way she was branding the Stingrays players.

She was moving the media coverage away from them looking like a bunch of stereotypical cocky jocks and portraying he and his teammates as a tight-knit group, a family. Rather than focusing exclusively on their time on the ice, she’d begun humanizing them by sharing personal small peeks into their real lives, giving fans fun posts that included favorite recipes, current reads, and other interesting facts.

When McKenna learned Coulton participated in the Big Brothers Big Sisters program, she asked if she could meet Slade and take some pictures for promotional purposes. Coulton had been resistant to the idea, because he was protective of his time spent with Slade, and he hadn’t joined the program as a way to show off. To him, that time was sacred and private.

However, when he ran McKenna’s request by Slade and his aunt Barbara, they were both excited by the premise and anxious to participate. Slade’s aunt was a huge advocate of the Big Brothers Big Sisters program, and she was hopeful McKenna’s promotion would encourage others to volunteer their time.

Slade, however, was less enticed by the altruistic component, drawn in by the opportunity to be in the limelight. Not that Coulton couldn’t fault him for that. The kid was part of a large family, so Coulton suspected it was sometimes hard to feel seen in the crowd. Plus, Slade had a huge personality and loved to be the center of attention, always talking the loudest, laughing the longest. Which wasn’t a problem for Coulton, because the kid was funny as shit.

It had been McKenna’s idea to bring Slade to a Stingrays game, and because Barbara worked long hours and couldn’t afford to take time off, McKenna said she’d be happy to hang out with Slade while Coulton was on the ice.

Following the game, she’d brought Slade down to meet some of the players in the weight room, while they did their postgame workouts. The kid had gotten a slew of autographs from his teammates, and McKenna had taken a ton of pictures.

“It was good to finally meet the infamous Slade,” Tank joked. “Nice kid.”

Coulton grinned, aware he tended to talk about Slade a lot, but that was just because he was so fond of the boy and proud of how much he’d grown in the past year, since they’d been paired together.

Barbara had signed up Slade for the Big Brothers Big Sisters program because he’d started getting into trouble at school, running with a rough crowd and failing tests. Coulton had encouraged the boy to get into sports, hoping Slade would join a junior hockey league. No such luck. Instead, he’d signed up to participate in little league baseball.

Because…of course, he did.

Coulton had put on a happy face as he’d sat through countless baseball games last summer, but it was tough. There wasn’t enough action in the damn sport in Coulton’s opinion, but that didn’t bother Slade, who was a natural shortstop and a hell of a hitter.

So far this school year, the kid had all A’s, probably because Coulton wasn’t above buying good grades. They’d come up with a payment plan—one they kept on the down-low—with Slade earning twenty bucks for every A on his report card, ten for every B, and a five for C’s. Coulton had learned early on that money was a huge motivator for Slade, which made sense, considering the kid had spent too many of his early years with a drug-addicted mother who often forgot to feed him.

For Slade, having some money in his pocket gave him peace of mind, even now, when he lived in a safe home with plenty of food.

The locker room was quiet, since the rest of the team had already taken off, either to head home or to Pat’s Pub to celebrate their win.

“You sure you don’t want to join us?” Tank offered again. “It’s not going to take long to drop the kid off. Gonna be plenty of puck bunnies there. Maybe you can invite one back to your place and take one of Blake’s famous victory laps.”

Coulton rolled his eyes, all too familiar with his teammate’s horizontal victory laps, not that Blake was taking any of those lately. Regardless, Coulton had zero interest in picking up one of the countless women who swarmed whenever he and his teammates went out together.

“No, thanks. I’m looking forward to having a quiet night at home.” Or at least, he was telling himself that was the plan.

Chances were good that once he’d dropped Slade off at home, he’d swing by Mick’s Tavern again. He had to see if his infatuation was still there, justified and real.

Who knew? Maybe he’d see Ainsley again and the spark would be gone.

Though he wasn’t sure if he was rooting for that outcome or not.

Even now, he couldn’t figure out what had prompted him to walk into that tavern in the first place. God knew there was nothing appealing about the decrepit building that made it look inviting.

But for some reason, it had captured his attention countless times over the past year.

Last week, he’d made a spur-of-the-moment decision to check the place out because the idea of going home to an empty, quiet apartment held no appeal. The tavern reminded him of a dive bar his dad would occasionally go to with his friends after work called Moxie’s, and feeling slightly homesick for Detroit, he’d decided to check it out.

He hadn’t made it two steps inside Mick’s Tavern before he’d taken a long look around and decided to retreat because, damn…the place really was a dump. It was as if someone had decided to open a legit dive bar, then decided to go the extra mile on making it even worse.

If despair was a place, it would be Mick’s Tavern.

Or at least, that was what he thought until he’d spotted her standing behind the counter.

Ainsley had captured his interest and held it in a way he’d never experienced. Because she was the complete opposite of what Coulton considered “his type.”

His previous girlfriends were soft-spoken, book smart, sweet, girl-next-door types who were more like McKenna. They’d been understated beauties who didn’t seek to draw attention to themselves with a lot of makeup and revealing clothing, like so many of the puck bunnies did. In addition, he’d always been drawn to tall, willowy blondes, as evidenced by the fact Jocelyn, Evelyn, and at least fifty percent of those failed first dinner dates matched that description.

Ainsley did not fit that bill. Not even close.

Not with her countless tats, piercings—he’d counted ten alone in her left ear—and dark hair that just barely brushed her shoulders, tipped with a bright purple dye at the ends. She’d been wearing an old band T-shirt tied with a knot on one side and low-slung jeans that gave him a healthy peek of her midriff. She was in a class completely her own…and he’d been captivated from the first glance.

So the fact that Mick’s Tavern was a shithole and its bartender wasn’t his type didn’t matter at all, because the second his gaze landed on Ainsley, it held. It didn’t help that she’d been staring him down, looking at him like she’d expected him to get the hell out of Dodge. She’d given him a self-confident, in-your-face smirk that was equal parts challenge and badass.

And damn if he hadn’t picked up the gauntlet she’d tossed at his feet as he walked over to the bar and ordered a beer.

He’d sprung a boner when she’d pulled that baseball bat out from under the counter and threatened to pummel her brother. There’d been nothing soft-spoken or demure about the way she’d cussed Eli up one side and down the other. It had been the mother of all turn-ons.

“Text if you change your mind about coming out with us,” Tank said.

“Will do,” Coulton said, giving Tank a wave over his shoulder as he stepped out of the locker room.

There would be no text.

And there would be no more pretending he wasn’t going to Mick’s.

Subconsciously he’d known that all along, because he’d purposely brought an extra change of clothes with him. There was no way he could wear the black dress pants, button-down shirt, tie, and blazer he’d worn to the arena, in Mick’s. It was an expectation of the Stingrays organization that the players dress up on game days.

He could just imagine if he walked into Mick’s in his dress clothes. Instead, he’d opted for dark jeans, a T-shirt, and gray hoodie, so he wouldn’t stick out like a sore thumb, even though he suspected he still would. Even his casual clothes were new and clean and didn’t look like he’d worn them through a couple of wars, like the attire sported by most of the patrons at Mick’s.

“Hey, Coulton!” Slade bounced over to him the second he stepped out of the locker room with some serious Tigger-level energy, which told Coulton the kid had taken advantage of the large candy selection in the team box.

“Did you have a good time?” Coulton asked Slade, taking note that McKenna looked a hell of a lot less peppy. He’d warned her Slade could be a handful, but she had insisted she was cool with watching the game with him, determined to go the extra mile to jazz up her social media posts.

“I had the best day ever!” Slade shouted dramatically. “I got nine autographs, ate four candy bars, two bags of chips, and drank three Mountain Dews. And it was all free!”

Coulton exchanged a glance with McKenna, who grimaced. “Free is apparently a very big deal,” she said. “He was determined to take advantage of the offer.”

Coulton chuckled, unsurprised by Slade’s delight. Money was tight at his aunt’s house, as she was a single mom, raising not only her nephew, Slade, and his sister, but five kids of her own. Her oldest son, Jerome, still lived in the apartment and was contributing toward the bills and groceries, but because they both worked minimum-wage jobs, the money didn’t stretch far.

Given the bulges in Slade’s jacket, Coulton guessed the boy had taken some of those free treats for the road.

“I appreciate you keeping an eye on him.” Coulton placed his hand on Slade’s shoulder in an attempt to calm him down, because the kid was hopping around like he had snakes in his pants. “We’ve been trying to get Slade to a game for ages, but we never found a way to make it work with his aunt or cousin’s schedules.”

“We had a lot of fun,” McKenna said. “And we got some awesome shots to use on our socials. Slade is a natural in front of the camera.”

Slade grinned over his shoulder at Coulton, delighted by her compliment. “A naaatural ,” the kid repeated, drawing the word out for effect. Coulton laughed.

“Thanks again, McKenna,” Coulton said, giving Slade a pointed look that he understood.

“Yeah, thank you, Mac,” the boy added. Apparently, he’d given McKenna a nickname. “I had a lot of fun. And I can come to another game if you need more pictures.”

McKenna laughed. “I’ll let you know.”

“You ready to head out?” Coulton asked the boy.

Slade groaned. “Do we have to go home? I’m not tired.”

Coulton ruffled the boy’s hair. “ You might not be, but I just played hockey for sixty minutes, then tacked on a postgame workout. I’m looking forward to chilling.” He figured it wasn’t lying if he did his chilling over a cold one at Mick’s Tavern.

“Okay,” Slade said sadly, shoulders slouching.

“Besides, tomorrow is a school day, and your aunt said you still had some homework to do.”

Slade grimaced. “Yeah, but that’s not fun.”

Coulton swung his arm over Slade’s shoulders as they walked out of the arena. “I think you’ve had plenty of fun today.” Then he poked one of Slade’s pockets, the crinkle proving his suspicions. “You going to share those treats with your cousins?”

“Do I have to?”

Coulton chuckled. “Might be a nice thing to do, since they didn’t get to come.” Coulton was bound and determined to get Slade’s whole family to a game, but given how many hours Barbara and Jerome worked, it was tough.

“Okay,” Slade groused, in a tone that said he wasn’t happy about sharing his booty.

They climbed into Coulton’s truck, the conversation on the trip from the arena to Cherry Hill one-sided as Slade replayed every single second of the day for him. Coulton had hoped the effects of the sugar would start to wear off by the time they reached Slade’s apartment building, but no such luck. The boy was still wired for sound.

“You coming up?” Slade asked, as they climbed out of the truck and trudged up the stairs to the family’s apartment.

“Yeah, but I’m not coming in. Just going to knock on the door and then run like hell, because your aunt isn’t going to be happy with either of us when she hears how much junk food you ate.”

Slade cracked up. “Run like hell,” he repeated.

Coulton shot him a look for cussing—not that it would do any good. Slade’s colorful vocabulary was something they’d talked about a lot in the first couple of months they were together. Mainly because the then ten-year-old was dropping the F-bomb into every sentence like a damn comma.

“We’re home,” Slade announced as he walked inside.

Jerome was standing near the door, sliding on a jacket. “Hey, little man. How was the game?”

“Great! We won,” Slade proclaimed in such a way it sounded as if he’d been on the ice with the team. He took a few minutes to catch Jerome and his other cousins up on the day’s events. Then he reached into his pockets and withdrew a candy store’s worth of sweets.

Jesus, Coulton thought. He might have to slip into the team box at some point this week to replenish.

He grinned as Slade and his cousins divvied up the goods, acting like Halloween had come early this year.

“Mom is getting a quick shower,” Jerome said. “I was just about to head out to hang with some buddies.”

“I’ll walk down with you.” Coulton said goodbye to Slade, then he and Jerome trudged down the three flights of stairs, stepping outside into the chilly fall evening. The sun was setting low over the horizon.

“Gonna play video games at my friend Malcolm’s place,” Jerome said. “If you wanna come.”

Coulton smiled at the offer. He’d become quite close to Slade’s family over the past year. “Afraid I can’t tonight. Got plans.”

“Oh yeah? Please tell me these plans include some hot chick, because dude…you realize you’re wasting your superpower?” Jerome, like Tank, believed Coulton should be using his professional athlete status to get laid every night.

“I was going to stop by Mick’s Tavern for a beer.”

Jerome frowned. “Is there another Mick’s? Because I know you don’t mean the shithole down the street,” he said, pointing in the right direction.

“That’s the one.”

“Don’t you have any rich-guy bars on your side of town?”

“Mick’s is fine. I stopped in there last week.”

“Were you wasted?” Jerome asked. “Did you lose a bet?”

Coulton chuckled. “No. It reminded me of a place where my dad used to drink in Detroit, so I thought I’d check it out.”

“Okay. That explains the first time, but, bruh…”

“It wasn’t that bad.”

Jerome lifted one eyebrow in genuine disbelief. Coulton didn’t blame him, because the place was that bad. It was the company, however, that wasn’t.

“It’s your funeral, man. Hey, do me a favor and tell Ainsley I said hey,” Jerome added.

“You know Ainsley?”

“Yeah. We went to school together. Me and her and a bunch of our gang skipped our last-period class a shit ton during our senior year to get high.”

Coulton laughed, instantly adding that tidbit to the list of ways Ainsley didn’t fit what he considered his type. His past girlfriends would never get stoned. Hell, Evelyn barely even drank, unless he counted the occasional glass of what he’d referred to as her “bubble-gum pink wine” with dinner. Even now, just the thought of her ordering the super-sweet Moscato made his teeth hurt. “What class did you have last period?”

“Algebra with Mr. Dickinson. And believe me, the first part of that name was right.”

“You and Ainsley don’t hang out anymore?”

Jerome shook his head. “Nah. Not since we graduated. I know her dad is sick, so she runs the bar. I see her around the neighborhood every now and then, and we catch up real quick, but that’s it.”

“Gotcha.” Coulton wasn’t sure what to add to that without making it obvious to Jerome that he was interested in Ainsley.

“Well, see you ’round, Coulton.”

Jerome lifted his fist and Coulton bumped it, the two of them saying goodbye.

Coulton climbed into his truck. If he was in his neighborhood, he’d just walk to the tavern because it wasn’t more than five or six blocks away, but in Cherry Hill, he felt better having his vehicle close by, where he could keep an eye on it. Considering Slade always looked genuinely surprised each time he picked him up and they returned to the street to find his truck still there, it told him he was right to be concerned.

Parking near the tavern, he crossed the street and walked in.

Just in time to see Ainsley thrust her finger in some mammoth guy’s face.

“I told you, I’m not serving you, Tuffy, so stop fucking asking for a beer. Goddammit, I’m sick of this shit!”

Coulton took a step closer, concerned about Ainsley’s safety, especially when the man scowled and leaned toward her.

“Jush wanna beer. Not whishkey,” Tuffy struggled to say.

“Jesus Christ,” Ainsley barked, taking a step back. “Do us all a favor and invest in a toothbrush, you gross bastard.”

Several of the guys sitting at the bar chuckled, but none of them seemed overly concerned about the safety of their bartender. In fact, their lack of interest in the whole drama made Coulton wonder how often this same scene played out.

Ainsley answered that for him with her next comment. “Every Sunday, you drink that cheap-ass rotgut whiskey at Lefty’s until he stops serving you, then think you can come here and keep going. I’m not serving your drunk ass.”

The man—Tuffy—wavered, struggling to stand still, his gaze darting in such a way that Coulton suspected he was seeing at least three fingers pointed his direction instead of the one, and he couldn’t figure out which was the real deal.

“I ain’t that drunk, ’Sley” Tuffy slurred, missing the first half of Ainsley’s name completely. “Leffy’s jush an ash-hole.”

Ainsley narrowed her eyes. “You’re right, he is, but that’s not my problem. You got two choices. Go sit your ass down in that corner booth and start drinking coffee, or I’m calling your wife to come pick you up.”

Tuffy threw his hands up. “Jesush, ’Sley. You don’t gotta be a bitcsh. I’ll go sit down. Jush don’t call Ann.”

Coulton watched, somewhat amazed, as the big gruff man looked genuinely threatened by Ainsley, who was half the man’s height and weight. He shuffled to the booth without continuing the argument.

With Tuffy taken care of, Ainsley glanced in his direction, her eyes widening in surprise as he approached the bar and claimed the same stool as last week.

She stared for a second, looking at him a bit like Tuffy had been studying her, like she was trying to decide if he was real. “Back again?” Her tone held the same level of disbelief as Jerome’s, when he’d said he was going back to Mick’s for a second time.

“Yep,” Coulton said, smiling.

“Why?”

He chuckled. “You’re good company.”

Ainsley frowned at what he’d thought was a charming reply. Then she scoffed. “You must not know many people. You want a beer?”

Coulton nodded. “Natty Boh.”

She poured him a pint from the tap, then slid it in front of him.

He handed over his card. “I’m gonna hang out awhile, so I’ll start a tab.”

“Um…okay,” she said, as she rang up his card.

“You working alone?” he asked, when he didn’t see the same waitress who’d been here last week. The tavern wasn’t exactly busy, but there were more people than had been here during his initial foray into Mick’s, over half the tables claimed.

“Yeah. It’s Maren’s birthday. Her girlfriend, Nat, surprised her with a trip to D.C. for the weekend.”

“Nice. She the only other employee?” Coulton recalled Jerome mentioning he didn’t see Ainsley much, now that her dad was sick.

“My brother is supposed to work here too, but as you saw last week, he’s a total piece of shit.”

Coulton couldn’t fault that observation. He wasn’t a violent person, but when her brother had insulted her, he’d seen red. His teammates would have flipped out if they’d seen him shoving Ainsley’s brother against the wall, the action completely out of character. Somewhere along the line, he’d gotten the nickname Gentle Giant on the team, and it circulated enough that McKenna had used it in some of her posts about him.

The door to the tavern opened, casting a ray of light across the floor, despite the setting sun. Because of the dingy interior of the place, it was easy to tell when someone new was coming in, the brief burst of light from the open door almost blinding.

Ainsley glanced over his shoulder. “Hey, Petey. Where the hell have you been?”

Coulton recognized the man as the one who’d pulled him over to play darts last Sunday.

Petey stepped next to him, also surprised to see him again. “Hey, Colt,” the older man said, slapping him on the shoulder.

Somehow, Petey had misheard Coulton, thinking he’d said Colt when he introduced himself, and he hadn’t bothered to correct the man.

“Wife dragged me to my mother-in-law’s for a fucking Sunday dinner,” Petey said in response to Ainsley’s question. “Tells me I don’t spend enough time with her mother. Told her that’s because I hate the bitch, which started a big fucking fight and next thing I know, I’m sitting with Atilla the Hun, pretending to like her cooking. I swear to God, it took me too many bites to figure out what the hell I was even eating.” Petey glanced back at Coulton. “It was ham, by the way, but it tasted like fucking leather.”

Coulton chuckled, amused by the man’s story. He hadn’t lied to Ainsley when he’d said he enjoyed the company at Mick’s. While the old guys in the place were grizzled and grumpy, they were entertaining storytellers.

“Anyway.” Petey shuffled down the bar to a stool Coulton assumed was the guy’s usual. “Get me a beer.”

Ainsley had the pint in front of Petey before he settled onto the stool.

“Turn the channel,” the older man demanded gruffly, pointing to the ancient TV. “See if you can find highlights from the hockey game. Atilla got rid of her cable, so I had to sit there and listen to her and my wife talk about a bunch of boring bullshit. Who the fuck gets rid of cable?”

So far, no one in the tavern had recognized Coulton, which wasn’t that surprising. As goalie, his face was completely covered by his helmet, so he was better able to go places incognito than his other teammates. He’d wondered last week if Ainsley recognized his name when she ran his credit card, but if she did, she didn’t give any indication.

Ainsley flicked through the channels until she found the highlights. Coulton didn’t bother watching them because he’d had a front-row seat to the game, and he was still pissed about letting those pucks get by him.

He watched Ainsley to see her reaction to the game, but she didn’t spare the TV a second glance, grabbing her sketch pad from the counter and picking up her pencil, chewing on the end as she studied whatever drawing she was looking at.

Coulton’s curiosity was piqued—by her disinterest in the game and her artwork. “Not watching the highlights?”

Ainsley shook her head.

Then Petey cussed at the TV. Or more specifically, him . “Jesus Christ. Moore needs to get his head out of his ass. How the fuck did that puck get in the net?”

Coulton grimaced, wondering the same goddamn thing. Then he looked at Ainsley and remembered exactly how it had flown by him. He’d been thinking about her.

“Not a hockey fan?” Coulton asked.

“Fuck no. Though to be fair, I hate all sports equally. Sat through enough of them when I was a kid because it’s all these losers around here watch.”

Petey rolled his eyes at her comment, clearly unaffected by her insult. Coulton wondered how long the older guy and Ainsley had known each other. There was a familiarity that seemed to indicate it had been a long time.

“That’s a shame,” Coulton said. “Because I was going to invite you to a hockey game.”

Ainsley stared at him for a couple seconds, blinking like she was trying to translate what he’d said. He had never met a woman like her. She was a ballbuster, overflowing with confidence when it came to running this tavern. She seemed to literally hold the rough patrons in the palm of her hand.

Yet, when it came to his flirting, she was completely flustered.

“Pass,” she finally said. “Hard pass. Not interested in going to a hockey game.”

So much for using his superpower with Ainsley, he thought, grinning.

Ainsley gave him a curious look. “That’s funny?”

“Not really,” he said with a shrug. He didn’t mention his career because he liked being able to sit unrecognized in this bar. “What are you drawing?”

She responded to that question exactly how he expected. She closed the pad and shoved it out of sight under the counter. “Nothing.”

“Can I see?” he asked.

She shook her head. “It’s all crap.”

He doubted that, but he also knew she wasn’t going to waver on giving him a peek, so he let it drop.

Despite her unease, she leaned on the counter to continue talking to him. “Visiting your Cherry Hill friend again?” she asked.

Coulton nodded. “Yeah. By the way, Jerome says hi.”

“Jerome Walker is your friend?”

“His cousin, Slade, is my Little Brother,” Coulton explained.

“Oh sure. I can totally see the family resemblance,” she joked.

Coulton cracked up, because he was clearly white and Slade Black. “We’re partnered up through Big Brothers Big Sisters.”

“You volunteer to be Slade’s Big Brother?”

“Yeah,” he replied.

“That’s seriously cool.”

“Cool enough that you’ll let me take you out to dinner? No hockey game,” he quickly added.

“You mean like on a date?”

Coulton laughed again. “Dinner is one of the things people do when they go on a date. You don’t hate food too, do you?”

Something shifted in Ainsley’s expression, something that wiped away the easy smile that had just been there. The problem was, Coulton couldn’t understand what he was seeing because she turned to stone, leaving him to wonder if she was mad, sad, scared, or annoyed. It could have been any or all of those things. What the hell had he said wrong?

“Not interested in dating, either.” She turned away from him, wiping the counter behind her—even though it didn’t need to be cleaned—and not bothering to offer him any reason why.

He sat there for a few minutes, trying to figure out how to recover. Ainsley was a puzzle, one he was obsessed with solving.

As she continued to clean the counter, carefully avoiding his gaze through the mirror, he studied her more closely. Her hair hung loose, the ends just brushing her shoulders. She wore a black tank top, so with her back turned, he was able to get a good look at most of the tattoo on her right shoulder.

“Is that an empty birdcage?” he mused aloud, hoping that by changing the subject, she’d relax and chat with him some more.

Ainsley twisted back around slowly. “Yeah.”

“No bird?”

She shook her head. “Nope. It flew away.”

Well, there was definitely a story behind that tattoo, but now, as always, Ainsley shut him down before offering anything more.

Rather than turn from him, she tilted her head, looking at him like she was trying to figure him out too. “You gonna keep coming here?”

Coulton nodded. “Yep.”

“Why?”

He considered lying, because he didn’t want to push her away, but there was a larger part of him that wanted to tell her the truth, simply to see how she would respond. “Because you haven’t agreed to go out on a date with me yet.”

Petey snorted, making it obvious he was eavesdropping on their conversation. “Good luck getting this one out,” he said to Coulton, as he tilted his chin toward Ainsley. “She hasn’t dated since?—”

“Since I got saddled with running this dump,” Ainsley interjected too quickly and too loudly. “This dump you come to every goddamn day.”

That was not what Petey was going to say, but the old guy had clearly gotten the point, and he didn’t seem any more anxious to piss off the bartender than Tuffy had. So, instead, Petey huffed and turned his attention back to the TV.

Oh yeah, Coulton thought. This woman had lots of stories.

And he wanted to hear every single one.