Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 83358 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83358 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
“I’m glad you’ll get to spend some time with him.”
“Yeah… me too. He’s got a daughter. Been a single dad since she was born.”
“The mom?” I inquire.
His eyes pin on mine. “Not in the picture, so I’m not sure what’s going to happen to his kid.”
I sit back. “That’s… heavy.”
Atlas exhales slowly. “Yeah. It is.”
Then he looks at me again, sharper now. “So my point is… if you’ve got something real with Winnie, don’t ration it. Don’t be stingy with the good stuff. Say what you mean. Show her. Let her feel it.”
I nod slowly, throat tight. That was not where I was expecting this conversation to go but he’s making a point I should keep close. I shouldn’t worry about rushing things if it feels right. And right now, it does.
“Don’t wait for some perfect moment that may never come,” he finishes. “Go all in.”
There’s nothing else to say for a second, so I sit with it.
And then Atlas, in true fashion, breaks the tension.
“Also, win the damn game. Can’t have her coming out tonight to watch your sorry ass lose.”
I laugh, the sound a little rough around the edges. “Guess I’ve got extra motivation now.”
He pushes back his chair. “Let’s suit up, Branson. Your girlfriend is expecting a victory lap and drinks.”
“She’s not—” I start, then stop myself. Because yeah, maybe she is my girlfriend.
I’ve never officially had one before and it feels damn good.
I scoop up the last bite of chicken, toss the plate in the bin, and follow Atlas out of the family room.
I’m not only playing for the scoreboard tonight.
I’m playing for her.
CHAPTER 20
Winnie
Lucky’s beaming from the win and I’m still floating from last night. It’s a lot of emotion to process which is probably why my stomach won’t stop doing gymnastics as we step into Jerry’s Bar.
The place is louder than I expected, this little hole-in-the-wall hangout owned by Hendrix’s fiancée, Stevie. I haven’t met either of them yet, but I expect I will tonight.
The low thrum of music and laughter echoing off the brick walls make me instantly like the place. Neon signs and a vintage hockey jersey are flanked by biker memorabilia. A plaque just inside the door reads Jerry’s Bar – Family, Booze and Bad Decisions Since 1967.
The guys—I’m not quite sure who that all entails—decided to hang here tonight after the win against Minnesota rather than Mario’s. And while tonight is mainly about celebrating victory, I expect Lucky’s orchestrated this to be my official introduction to his hockey family.
He keeps a warm hand at the small of my back as we cross the threshold, like he knows I’m one breath away from bolting. Not because I don’t want to be here—I do. But this is a big deal… to meet his team and their significant others. Not just Mazzy, Mila and Tempe, who were all so warm and welcoming in the family room the other night, but everyone.
All at once.
In the flesh.
And I’m about to be officially labeled The Girl Lucky Branson Is Into.
No pressure.
“Relax,” Lucky murmurs near my ear, like he can read every thought skittering around in my brain. “They’re gonna love you. Mostly because they already do.”
I shoot him a dubious look as we pass the main bar and head toward the back, where everyone occupies several tables. The space is full of laughter. “They don’t even know me.”
“They know enough,” he says, flashing me that lopsided grin that always makes my knees feel like warm Silly Putty. “And Mazzy’s told them you’re the best thing to ever happen to my social media. So, you’ve got that going for you.”
Why is my mouth so dry?
The space is packed. Multiple tables pushed together. Plates of loaded nachos and sliders. Beer bottles and cocktails and the kind of energy that apparently comes from a good win. Players are in jeans and hoodies, their significant others in various states of glam and cozy.
It’s a lot.
Mazzy looks up, sees me, and waves so enthusiastically she nearly knocks over her drink. “Winnie!”
I’m ushered in with hugs and smiles like I’m a regular, not some wide-eyed outsider fumbling her way through a secret club.
“Glad you came,” Tempe says, wrapping me in a squeeze and then shooting Lucky a look over my shoulder. “I assume you brought her just to raise the average attractiveness of the group.”
“Obviously,” Lucky replies, winking at me.
“Guys,” Mazzy says to the group, nudging me toward the table, “this is Winnie. TikTok Winnie. Lucky’s Winnie.”
My cheeks flame at the label, but no one snickers. If anything, the vibe is a mix of welcome and curiosity. And more than one person shoots Lucky a grin like Dude, you actually did it.
Introductions fly.
Foster gives me a nod and a smirk. “Lucky’s talked about you.”
Mazzy slaps his arm. “Which is rare. He usually only talks about his protein macros.”