Page 2 of Puck and Prejudice

He drops into a crouch, and a moment later, the pressure eases off until no more beer is coming out of the tap. Boy, that was fun.

I remember the grumpy guy and, no surprise, he’s staring daggers at us. “I’m so sorry. Do you need a towel?”

“No.”

“Then anything else to drink? On the house.” I smile, trying to make the situation a bit better, but he doesn’t reciprocate.

“What I need is a properly staffed establishment that doesn’t rely on the help of children on a busy night,” he grits out.

I flinch. I get that he’s pissed, but the tap going kaput had nothing to do with Mari Carmen or her underage status.

A drunk guy slides up next to him and throws an arm around his shoulder. “Dude! You were a fucking legend tonight.”

Shit. This guy must be a hockey player.

He stiffens. “Thank you.”

“Let me buy you a drink.”

“Thanks, but I gotta go.” He moves away and disappears into the crowd, leaving drunk guy with his jaw hanging loose.

“Do you know who that was?” drunk guy asks us.

“No clue,” I say.

“That was Jackson motherfucking Darcy. The Lions’ captain!”

Crap on toast. Not only was he a hockey player, but the captain to boot.

“Did I mess things up for Dad?” Mari Carmen asks tearfully.

“No, cariño,” Manuel replies. “That guy was a gilipollas. Most hockey players are.”

I don’t necessarily agree with Manuel’s comment, but in that guy’s case, hewasa total jerk. He’d better hope I never cross paths with him again. I’d give him a piece of my mind.

* * *

JACKSON

Damn it. I thought I was done with the beer showers tonight. I had plenty of that in the dressing room right after the game. If I hadn’t made a vow last year to get stupid drunk only after we won the cup, I wouldn’t care that I’m drenched and filthy. I should have accepted the bartender’s towel offer, but I was too angry and caught off guard by her big brown eyes, and then that fan showed up. I’ve already used up my social battery. I can’t cope with fans anymore.

The first person who notices me when I work my way back to the team’s table is Logan Kaminski, our young forward. His brows shoot up, and he grins. “What happened to you?”

I grab the stack of napkins in the middle of the table and then sit down. “I asked for an IPA and didn’t realize the glass was optional.”

Logan chuckles. “Gee, is the bartender still alive?”

“Yes,” I grumble. “She was a kid, and I don’t murder children.”

Chad’s eyes bug out. “Wait. What?”

“Darcy’s yanking your chain.” Gavin takes a sip of his beer. “Although I didn’t know he was capable of humor.”

“Piss off, Wickham,” I retort.

I try to rein in my immense dislike for Gavin Wickham, a washed-up D-man who’s done nothing but harm our defense. He’s been with the Lions for as long as I have—we were drafted the same year. I was the first pick overall, and he was picked in the second round. I’ve known him longer, though. Growing up, we attended the same training camps and have been rivals since then. When we got picked by the same team, I was willing to put the past behind us, but Gavin never let go of his grudge against me.

Chad has his phone out, and the screen lights up with an incoming text message. He grabs the device too quickly for me to read it. Not that I want to snoop anyway, but his broad smile makes me curious.

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