Right Man, Right Time (The Vancouver Agitators, #3)(132)

“I’m good,” I answer.

“That’s not the right answer,” Posey says as he buttons up his shirt. “We just took another win, and we deserve a chance to celebrate your fucking hat trick. Now come on. You’re coming.”

“I don’t need to celebrate.” I slip my shoe on and then the other. “I’m fine just going home.”

“Well, we’re not fine with it,” Hornsby says. “Penny has already told me I can go celebrate because Holden is sleeping, so we’re fucking celebrating.” Hornsby shakes my shoulders. “Three fucking goals, man. That’s something to celebrate.”

Knowing they won’t leave me alone, I succumb to their demands. “Fine.”

Posey fist-pumps the air. “Great, you can ride with me.”

“I can drive myself.”

Posey laughs at that. “As if we would let you just drive, allowing you not to show up. No, dude, you have to be escorted.”

Dammit. They know me too well.

“Fine,” I say as I slip my suit jacket on. “But I’m leaving when I want to fucking leave.”

“You’re required at least thirty minutes,” Pacey says.

“No, two drinks,” Hornsby counters.

“Two big alcoholic drinks,” Posey says.

I glance at Holmes, and he just shrugs. “I agree with them.”

“Wow, dude.” I shake my head. “Fine, two large alcoholic drinks.”

“Thatta boy,” Posey says, shaking my shoulders. “Let’s hit the road.”

He pushes me toward the exit, and together, we walk past the media and out of the arena. When we reach Posey’s car, he goes to my side and opens the door for me.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Making sure you don’t go anywhere,” he says and then nods to the car. “Get in.”

“You’re being ridiculo—”

My voice falls as Posey buckles me in himself. When he’s done, he pats me on the leg and then goes to his side of the car.

When he’s settled, I say, “That was taking it too far.”

“Felt right to me.”

He pulls out of the parking space, the other guys following closely. “So . . . what do you want to talk about?” Posey asks.

“Probably not what you want to talk about.”

“And what do you think I want to talk about?” he asks.

“I don’t know . . . my love life and how I’m a recluse now who doesn’t hang out with you four, so that’s why you’ve pressured me into going out with you tonight.”

“You said it, not me. So let’s chat about that.”

“There’s nothing to chat about.”

“Sure there is.” Posey makes a left and heads toward downtown. “Have you heard from Ollie at all?”

“Wow,” I say. “Less than a minute. I thought you’d at least give it five minutes before you brought her up.”

“Nah, no beating around the bush over here. Got to get straight to the point. So have you?”

“No. She took my advice and got out of my life.”

“Okay, so no correspondence at all?”

“No,” I answer.

“And how do you feel about that?”

“Good,” I respond even though that’s a lie.

I don’t feel good at all.

I actually can’t fucking sleep at night.

My body’s on autopilot as I move through the motions, never feeling anything. When I got in those fights after I found out about the article, I didn’t feel a goddamn thing. When I came home and confronted her, I felt nothing. When I scored the hat trick today, there was zero joy within me.

I’m just dead inside.

And when I go home and lie in my bed wishing for my mind to stop whirling about Ollie, I can’t stop thinking about how I wish she was in my bed with me, naked and curled into my side. How I miss her sweet moans as I drove inside her. How I miss her witty remarks when we’re joking around. How I miss her never-ending hugs, her addicting cuddles, and her mind-blowing kisses.

I miss her so goddamn much that the only time I ever feel anything is at night, when I’m alone and wishing she was there. That’s when I feel pain.

It’s why going out tonight sounds slightly appealing because it will cut down on the time when I’ll be alone, feeling that pain.

“Why don’t I believe you when you say you’re good?”

“Because you’re annoying,” I answer.

“Well, at least your maturity is intact,” he says, annoying me even more.





It’s too fucking crowded in here.

The music is too loud.

And even though it’s an Irish pub that gives you the sense that you’re back in Ireland with its creaky floorboards, Gaelic band, and large pints, I want nothing to do with it.

“I don’t know about this,” I say to Posey as he pushes me through the crowd cheering for us.

“We have a private space in the back, don’t worry.” He guides me through a curtained-off area and into an open room with high-top tables and chairs scattered throughout.

Well, that’s slightly better.

“Guinness?” Posey asks me.