Him (Him #1)(10)

The bar is packed when I enter. No surprise. It’s Friday night and the hotel is booked solid because of the tournament. Every table and booth is occupied. I have to turn my body sideways to move through the place, and I can’t see Wes anywhere.

Maybe this was a stupid idea. “Excuse me,” I say. There’s a clot of businessmen blocking the thoroughfare between the bar and the tables. But they laugh at someone’s joke, ignoring the way they’re making the whole room impassable.

I’m probably seconds from going back upstairs when I hear it.

“Suckers.”

It’s just one word, but I recognize Wes’s voice instantly. Deep, kinda raspy. I’m suddenly transported back to high school, to all those summers I heard that voice mocking me, challenging me, ragging on me.

A communal snort of laughter follows his comment, and I turn my head to search him out in the group of hockey players against the far wall.

He turns his head at the same time, almost as if he senses my presence. And shit, I’ve traveled back in time again. He looks the same. And different. He looks both different and the same.

He’s still got the messy dark hair and scruffy beard growth, but he’s bigger now. Solid muscle and broad shoulders, more lean than bulky, but definitely bulkier than his eighteen-year-old self. Still has the tribal tattoo on his right biceps, but now there’s a lot more ink on his golden-toned skin. Another piece on his left arm. Something black and Celtic-looking peeking from the collar of his T-shirt.

He’s still talking to his friends as he watches me approach. Of course he’s surrounded by people. I’d forgotten how magnetic he is. As if he burns with higher test fuel than the rest of us.

A barbell pierced through his eyebrow catches the light as he turns his head, a wink of silver just a shade lighter than his slate-gray eyes. Which narrow when I finally swim through the sea of people to arrive at his side.

“Shit, man, did you get highlights in your hair?”

More than three years since we’ve been in the same room together, and that’s the first thing he says to me?

“No.” I roll my eyes as I slide onto the stool beside his. “It’s from the sun.”

“Still surfing every weekend?” Wes asks.

“When I have time.” I cock a brow. “Still pulling down your pants and flashing your junk for no conceivable reason?”

His teammates erupt around us, their laughter thundering in my chest. “Shit, he was always like this?” somebody says.

A grin tugs the corner of Wes's mouth. “I’ve never deprived the world of my God-given masculine beauty.” He reaches out to put a big hand on my shoulder. He gives it a squeeze. It’s gone again in a split second, but I can still feel the warm spot on my shoulder. “Guys, this is Jamie Canning, my friend from way back and goalie for those punks at Rainier.”

“Hey,” I say stupidly. Then I glance around, looking for a waitress. I need a drink in my hand, even if it’s just a soda. But the place is mobbed, and the only server in view is nowhere nearby.

I glance at the glass in Wes’s hand. He’s drinking something fizzy—Coke, from the looks of it. No, root beer. He’d always preferred root beer. And obviously his coach gave him the same no-drinking spiel.

Wes raises his hand in the air, and the waitress abruptly turns in our direction. He points at his glass and she nods as if commanded by God to do his bidding. Wes flashes her a smile, his favorite currency for favors. And I notice another flash of metal.

His tongue is pierced. That’s new, too.

Annnd now I’m thinking about his tongue. Jesus f*ck. And the last four years of silence between us suddenly make a bit more sense. Maybe there are drunken antics capable of wrecking a friendship.

Or maybe that’s crap, and if we’d stayed friends we could have gotten past an hour’s worth of stupidity a long time ago.

Meanwhile, it’s really too warm in this bar. If that waitress brings me a root beer, I’m going to be tempted to pour it all over myself. And the silence between my ex-friend and I is growing longer by the second.

“Crowded,” I manage. Just barely.

“Yeah. Need a pull?” He offers me his glass.

I take a greedy gulp and our eyes meet over the rim. His confidence has slipped a millimeter or two. His gaze asks a question. Are we going to make it through the next half hour?

Swallowing, I make a decision. “Shame the Bruins got punished by the Ducks last month.”

I see the flash of arrogance return at lightning speed. “That was a fluke. And a terrible call in the third. Your wing tripped over his own duck feet.”

“With a little help from your D-man.”

“Oh, f*ck that. Twenty bucks says the Ducks don’t make it past the first round this year.”

“Twenty is all you’re willing to bet?” I gasp. “Sounds like you’re afraid. Twenty and a YouTube video proclaiming my greatness.”

“Done, but when you lose, you make that video in a Bruins T-shirt.”

“Sure.” I shrug. And just like that, the night gets easier.

The waitress appears with two glasses of root beer and a hungry smile for Wes. He slips her a twenty. “Thanks, doll.”

“Let me know if you need anything,” she says, overselling it by a shade. Christ. Hockey players don’t have a lot of trouble getting laid, but my old friend obviously enjoys his pick of the litter. She’s hot, too. Great rack and a sweet smile.