Page 11 of Delayed Penalty

Avery

It’s crazy how sometimes things just tend to work out in our favor, usually when we least expect it to. Like how I begged Peter to take me somewhere that I could have a couple of drinks, dance, and play pool and he told me no, only to end up doing it anyway withhim.Hearing our song playing through the speakers at the bar, I turn to where I expected Harris to be while he grabs our drinks but he’s not there.

You’ve probably had enough shots, you’re already not thinking too clearly.

I look over and see the dart board is free now that the frat boys who were hogging it all night have finally moved on to the dance floor where they’re showing off theirimpressivemoves to woo the girls, and as you can imagine, it’s failing miserably.

Grabbing the darts, I move to turn around when I feel a body behind me. A hard, firm, body.

“Why are you with him?” he whispers, his voice rough, raw with unspoken emotion and I’m taken aback.Why am I with him?

“Why does it matter?” I ask, because at the end of the day, I only got with Peter after he left me so why is it any of hisbusiness who I spend my time with, or who I decide to spend my life with?

At one point, you thought it was going to be him.

“It just does, Ave… why are you with him when I can see the unhappiness in your eyes? Why are you with him when you deserve so much more than some arrogant prick with wandering eyes?”

What do I say to that? That I hate how he can see the unhappiness in my eyes? I hate that for the last six years nearly everyone has thought I’ve been living out my dreams of being with Peter, when in reality it’s been a living nightmare I haven’t been able to escape from no matter how many times I try to wake myself up.

“It doesn’t matter,” I whisper, not sure when we got this close to each other since I can feel his breathe on my neck, his lips just a breath away from my ear. And I know if I took a tiny step backward I’d feel the hardness of his body pressed against my own.

But I don’t—this moment already feels too much.

“But what if I told you it does matter? That it’s the only thing that’s ever mattered?”

“I’d call you a liar,” I say, taking a step to the side and uncaging myself in with this man who I’m two seconds away from kissing while wearing a ring from another man. Turning around, I face him, his head hanging as he stands in the exact place I’d just left him.

Raising my hands, I hold the darts up. “Are we playing or not?”

He stares at me for a moment, indecision in his eyes like he wants to say something, but as quickly as the look is there, it’s gone. Replaced by his usual carefree grin.

“Lead the way, Ave. I’m not against watching you embarrass yourself in front of the entire bar.”

He’s not wrong. The me he remembers washorribleat darts, I still remember being at his apartment with the dartboard on the back of his bedroom door and I still almost hit his roommate in the face on the other side of the room.

As much as I’d like to say I’ve changed, I definitely haven’t. I still have no coordination, regardless of all those nights I spent heartbroken at frat houses and dive bars where all the guys gave me ‘tips’ on how to play darts. They didn’t last long because Peter got a new job and was no longer okay with us being just casual—my fun ended almost as quickly as it began. I’m still not sure why I said yes to dating him. I mean I knew from the beginning he was just a rebound after Harris—as mean as that sounds, it’s true.

He knew it too. That’s how he sweetened the deal, basically telling me he’d help me forget him. But, truth be told, he couldn’t. Hell, there’s a lot of things that man can’t do: clean up after himself, find my g-spot, give orgasms. I could go on and on, but number one on the list of things he couldn’t do was help me forget Harris.

Nothing could, nothing ever has.

But I also never got rid of Peter and that’s not something I can quite figure out. Why are we together when it’s so obvious neither of us are happy?

I snap out of my thoughts when Harris hands me the darts with a smirk. “You’re up.”

I try to act like I know what I’m doing, lining myself up, shoulders back, holding the dart how I’d been shown a million times, yet the second I throw the dart, I know it’s hooking left.

And it does.

Right into a Boston Bandits foam finger.

“Shit! I’m so sorry,” I say to the guy as he turns toward me grumpily while Harris starts laughing his ass off behind me. “Shut up, Danielson, or I’ll aim for you next.”

“Then you’d probably hit me again,” grumbles the foam finger guy, looking over at Harris longer than normal.

“Oh, stop it, you’re fine. It hit your shitty team’s foam finger,” I say, pointing to the Boston logo, knowing damn well it’s in our New Yorker blood to hate all Boston teams. In this case, it’s their NHL team that’s obviously a rival for Harris.

Not that I know anything about him or his team.

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