Page 17 of Bar Down

Just bringing them up makes me think of Dustin Mitchell, Vermont’s biggest dickhead. Remembering how he picked a fight with Ash a couple months ago at a bar makes my blood boil. I couldn’t get the image of Ash’s bruised face out of my head for a while after that. How young and vulnerable he looked, and how much I wanted to protect him.

As a goalie, fighting is not something I generally condone. I don’t understand the point of it, since all it does is bring both teams penalties during a game. When the fighting happens off the ice though, that’s even worse, and it shows that players are unprofessional.

“Are we hitting up some clubs after this, or what?” Dylan asks. I take a deep breath and try hard not to roll my eyes. Of course, this is what they care about.

“Hell yeah, we need to catch up. Isn’t that right, Ash?” Max follows up with a smirk and a light shove to Ash’s chest.

Maybe I can condonesomefighting if it means this guy stops flirting with Ash.

Before Ash can reply I say, “Who could possibly catch up at a club? You won’t even hear yourself, let alone someone talking to you.”

Dylan snorts. “What, are you too old to have some fun? We’re on break, let loose a little and enjoy California.”

“Give him a break, he’s a goalie. You know how weird they are—he probably doesn’t even know the definition of fun,” Max says, poking at me.

Like I give a shit what they think. I raise an eyebrow at Ash but he’s not looking at me. Fine. Whatever. It’s not like I thoughthe would side with me, but it would be nice if he put his focus into something other than drinking every now and then. I roll my eyes at their childish behavior and simply walk away.

After a few interviews and photo shoots, Ash and I are ready to participate in the afternoon’s event. There are a variety of mini games for us to participate in, where we need to work together as a team to win.

The first is to play a version of mini golf, except instead of using a putter, we need to use a hockey stick to hit the golf ball. I grimace and look around for the cameras, hoping to angle myself in a way that won’t show how bad I am at this.

“What’s that face for? Already regret spending time with me?” Ash asks.

I scowl and say, “I’m terrible at golf, there’s a reason I never go when Robbie suggests it.”

He laughs and it’s bright and happy. I can’t remember the last time I heard him laugh like this. “I think you’d really like it, if you stopped being stubborn and actually let us teach you sometime.”

“How did you learn how to play golf?” I ask, trying to keep my voice low so no one else hears.

“My father taught me. It’s kind of a requirement for being born rich. If you’re born into old money, youmustknow how to golf,” Ash says, some of the laughter and happiness already dimming away.

He doesn’t talk much about his family, but I thought that’s just because they’re high profile and private. Ash’s dad is Nelson Meyers, one of the best defensemen in hockey history. He won five Stanley Cup championships during his time with Boston and is now the current general manager for the team. Ash never talks about him though. All I know is that Nelson Meyers has never been to a Manticores game.

“What about your mom?” I prod.

“What about her?” he glares at me.

“You never talk about her.”

“There’s nothing to say. I don’t get along with my parents, and that’s that.”

“Okay, I’m sorry I brought it up,” I say, and continue to fumble with the hockey stick, trying to hit the ball.

“Try holding the stick lower and position yourself above it,” Ash says, dropping his and helping me position mine. His hands are warm and I’m sure I’m blushing just from his proximity. “Make sure when you look down, your eyes are level with the ball. At least that’s what you want to do with an actual putter and golf ball.”

I clear my throat. “Cool, thanks.” Ash looks at my pink cheeks as he straightens to his full height and smirks. Great, now he knows I’m flustered by his touch.

After winningthe putt-putt mini game, we went up against the other winning team, which happened to be Max and Dylan. This time, we had to get a hole in one to win the game.

Max went first and he hit the ball so hard it hit one of the photographers in the groin. After some apologies and making sure the guy was alright, Ash took his turn. He hit it perfectly, except as soon as the ball approached the hole, it rode along the edge and continued rolling down the other side. Dylan was smug about it and said, “You guys have no chance of winning this. My short game is impeccable.” As soon as he lined up the shot though, he hit it too softly and it only traveled halfway to the hole. The smile fell off his face quickly and I inwardly cheered.

I couldn’t believe the game was up to me. My hands were sweating and I kept brushing them on my shorts. Ash came up to me, put a hand on my shoulder and whispered, “You got this,pretty boy.” I’m pretty sure my brain short circuited, but oddly, that was exactly what I needed.

Instead of overthinking the shot, my brain was stuck on what Ash said.

Pretty boy.

I smiled to myself and took the shot.

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