Page 33 of Resist

When the final buzzer sounded, the Stingrays emerged victorious. Not that Coulton gave a shit. He hadn’t let a single goal in, and while his teammates were jubilant, slapping him on the back and congratulating him for a hell of a game, all he could think about was getting to her.

He cut his postgame workout and stretches way too short because he couldn’t relax until he knew she was okay.

He didn’t say a word to anyone as he left the arena and hightailed it to Mick’s Tavern.

Coulton’s gaze drank her in as he stepped inside the dimly lit dive. She was pouring a beer from the tap, rolling her eyes as Maren and some young buck arm wrestled over the counter, several men passing dollar bills back and forth as they bet on the outcome. A cheer went up as Maren won, pounding the guy’s arm down to the surface with a surprising amount of force.

When Ainsley turned to see him standing there—and flashed him that same shocked expression she wore every time he showed up at Mick’s—the pressure that had been crushing his chest all day lifted.

“Coulton!” Petey cried out, using the right name.

“There’s our hero,” Maren exclaimed excitedly.

“You really did come,” Ainsley said.

Given the warm reception he was receiving, it was apparent Ainsley had outed him. Not that he minded. He was thrilled to know she was looking forward to seeing him again.

Coulton approached the counter, exchanging a glance with Ainsley, who gave him a guilty grin. “We watched your game. You were incredible.”

“Thought you hated hockey,” he said, as she put a pint of Natty Boh in front of him.

“Oh, I do,” she said, in a pure smart-ass tone. “Boring-as-shit game.”

He didn’t have a chance to respond as the regulars descended, surrounding him at the bar, giving him the same back slaps and congratulations he’d received from his teammates, everyone offering to buy him a beer.

Coulton didn’t mind the accolades, now that he was withher.

Once he’d answered no less than forty million questions and signed a cocktail napkin for nearly every single person in the place, most of the patrons began to return to their regular spots.

“Ainsley said you came along at just the right time last night,” Petey said, perched on the stool next to Coulton’s.

His gaze traveled to Ainsley, who was serving pitchers to a table of older women. The volume coming from the group told him this wasn’t their first round. Or second. Or third.

Ainsley had made a nominal attempt to conceal the bruise on her face with makeup, but it was still visible, as was the cut on her lip. No doubt she’d had to explain her injuries to the patrons.

“Wish I’d been here,” Petey muttered. “I’d’ve taught those fuckers a thing or two.”

“You’d have gotten in line behind me,” Maren added. “Not that there would have been anything left for you by the time I was done.”

Coulton had been losing his shit all day, and while he was still uneasy with Ainsley working here, he had to admit he felt easier knowing she had Maren and Petey and all the other regulars in her corner.

Not that it had helped her much last night.

“I’m glad I showed up when I did,” he said.

“Shame the assholes got the money,” Petey added. “I know things are tight for her and Mick, what with him being sick and Eli gambling and snorting away whatever he can steal from them.”

“You know Mick well?” Coulton asked.

Petey nodded. “Oh, hell yeah. Been drinking here for going on thirty-five, forty years. Known Ainsley her whole life. Her and her brother used to sit in that booth right over there after school and during the summers, when they were just wee little things.”

Petey noticed Coulton’s frown.

“Yeah,” the old guy continued, addressing what Coulton hadn’t said. “I know it probably wasn’t the best place for little kids, but Mick’s wife split, and he couldn’t afford to pay a babysitter.”

“So they stayed here? Every day?”

Petey nodded. “Yup. Mick has an old couch in the back storeroom. When it got to be too late, Ainsley and Eli would sleep there until close.”

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