The Bromance Book Club (Bromance Book Club, #1)
Lyssa Kay Adams
CHAPTER ONE
There was a reason Gavin Scott rarely drank.
He was bad at it.
As in, face-planted on the carpet while reaching for the bottle bad. And too drunk to see in the dark so might as well stay down bad.
Which is why he didn’t get up when his best friend and Nashville Legends teammate, Delray Hicks, pounded on the door to his hotel room, a fourth-floor state of depression that reminded him every minute that he could at least screw up like a champion.
“Izz open,” Gavin slurred.
The door swung wide. Del flipped on a blinding overhead light and immediately swore. “Shit. Man down.” He turned and spoke to someone else. “Help me.”
Del and another giant human lumbered toward him until their four massive hands grabbed his shoulders. In an instant, he was upright and leaning against the shitty couch that had come with the room. The ceiling spun, and his head fell back against the cushions.
“Come on.” Del smacked his cheek. “Look alive.”
Gavin sucked in air and managed to lift his head. He blinked twice but then ground the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. “I’m drunk.”
“No shit,” Del said. “What have you been drinking?”
Gavin lifted his hand to point at the bottle of craft bourbon on the coffee table. It had been a gift from a local distillery to every member of the team at the end of their season a few weeks ago. Del swore again. “Shit, man. Why not just pour grain alcohol down your throat?”
“Didn’t have any.”
“I’ll get some water,” said the other guy, whose blurry face sort of resembled Braden Mack, owner of several Nashville nightclubs, but that made zero sense. Why would he be there? They’d only met once at a charity golf thing. Since when were he and Del friends?
A third man suddenly walked in, and this time Gavin recognized him. It was one of his teammates, Yan Feliciano. “Como es el?”
How is he? Gavin understood that. Holy shit, he could speak Spanish when he was drunk.
Del shook his head. “He’s about one shot away from listening to Ed Sheeran.”
Gavin hiccupped. “No me gusta Ed Sheeran.”
“Shut up,” Del said.
“I don’t stutter when I’m Spanish.” Gavin hiccupped again. Something sour came up with it this time. “When ’m drunk.”
Yan swore. “Que pasó?”
“Thea asked for a divorce,” Del said.
Yan made a sound of disbelief. “My wife said there was a rumor about them having trouble, but I didn’t believe it.”
“Bleeveve it.” Gavin groaned, dropping his head against the couch. A divorce. His wife of three years, the mother of his twin daughters, the woman who made him realize there really was a thing called love at first sight, was done with him. And it was his own fucking fault.
“Drink this,” Del said, handing Gavin a bottle of water. And then, speaking to Yan again, said, “He’s been staying here for the past two weeks.”
“She kicked me out,” Gavin said, dropping the unopened water.
“Because you’ve been acting like a douchebag.”
“I know.”
Del shook his head. “I warned you, man.”
“I know.”
“I told you she’d get sick of your ass if you didn’t get your head out of it.”
“I know.” Gavin growled it this time, lifting his head. Too fast. He did it too fast. A wave of nausea warned that the bourbon was making a run for the nearest exit. Gavin swallowed and drew in a deep breath, but, oh shit . . . sweat dampened his forehead and his armpits.
“Oh fuck, he’s turning green!” Might-Be-Braden-Mack yelled.
Massive hands grabbed him again and hauled him to his feet. They barely touched the floor as Del and Pretty-Sure-It-Was-Mack dragged him to the bathroom. Gavin stumbled to the toilet just as something the color of bad decisions exploded from his mouth. Mack swore with a gag and bolted. Del stayed, even when Gavin grunted like a tennis player in her backswing and heaved several more times.
“You never could handle the hard stuff,” Del said.
“I’m dying.” Gavin groaned again, falling to one knee.
“You’re not dying.”
“Then put me out of my mishery.”
“Trust me. I’m tempted.”
Gavin fell onto his ass and leaned against the beige bathroom wall. His knee collided with the beige tub hidden by a plastic, beige shower curtain. He made $15 million a year and was stuck in a shittier hotel room than his days as a minor leaguer. He could afford way better, but this was punishment. Self-imposed. He’d let his pride ruin the best thing that ever happened to him.
Del flushed the toilet and closed it. He walked out and returned a moment later with the water. “Drink. I mean it this time.”
Gavin opened the bottle and sucked down half. After a few minutes, the room was no longer spinning. “What are they doing here?”
“You’ll find out.” Del sat down on the lid of the toilet and leaned forward, elbows on knees. “You all right?”
“No.” Gavin’s throat convulsed. Shit. He was going to lose it in front of Del. He squeezed his eyes shut and pressed the pad of his thumb into the space between his eyebrows.