Page 10 of Resist

“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 spottedherstanding 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.

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