Page 25 of Need You to Choose Me

Belle’s Place isstyled as a 1920’s speakeasy. Dull music is muted as I follow Clarkson and the guys in, still dressed in my conference attire that doesn’t feel as out of place as I thought it would be. The room is dimly lit, and the jazz music is getting louder as we’re escorted by a blond woman in a short, sexier version of flapper-style garb to a set of stairs leading up to a private loft that’s above a small stage area where an instrumental band is playing.

I glance over the railing to study the assortment of people responsible for the calming music before somebody smacks my back and brings my attention to the woman who seated us. Her expectant eyes and arched brows tell me she’s collecting orders. “And for you?”

“Scotch on the rocks.”

Her smile stretches as she turns with grace and struts toward the stairs with more than one set of eyes following each swiveled step.

“That’s Belle,” Moskins tells me, grinning in my direction once Belle disappears. Based on the way his eyes were glued to her ass, I’m assuming he may be involved with her as well. “She always personally ensures we’re taken care of. When we come in she only has the best of the best come serve us.”

Clarkson nods. “She knows why we come here and makes anybody who handles us understand that we want our presence kept on the downlow.”

“You’re forgetting the hottest part,” George Berkley, our right defenseman, says from the corner of the booth. “She’s a season passholder. Only misses a game if there’s a serious emergency in her life. Nothing more loyal than a woman who’s a true fan.”

That gets collective noise of agreement from the guys, making me think of an entirely different woman than the one currently balancing a tray of drinks on her palm as she ascends the stairs again. The green-eyed girl who dominates my thoughts hasn’t texted me back once, but I know damn well she’s seeing every message I send.

And I have a feeling she’s reacting to them, which is why her pride is telling her to give me the cold shoulder. I know I’ll break her down eventually.

I watch the band below us and think about the press conference. Because of Olive’s pep talk, I’d survived it with minimal pauses. And the pictures I saw online made me look…confident. Natural. Not one pit stain in sight. Even Coach Pelfrey told me I looked like I belonged up there, and that hardass rarely doles out compliments.

For the most part, I was asked questions about my training, if I thought we had a better chance at the cup next season, how I was adjusting to life as a league player, and if any of my teammates offered me any good advice. Basic. Expected. But then other questions started arising. Questions about my family. About my friends. About my dating life. And it was obvious when I clammed up that there was a lot to be said about those things, which only made them more curious about the subject matter like sharks smelling blood.

Do you have a girl at home who’s cheering you on? How is your family handling your success and time away from home? Do you keep in touch with any former teammates you played with at Lindon University?

The last one was almost laughable considering they name dropped Sebastian Henderson and the title he proclaimed as one of the New York Rangers best defenseman of the past decade. Is he good? Yeah. Better than good. I would never tell that to my teammates or to a room full of cameras. He doesn’t need the ego stroke. I also didn’t mention that I had a habit of fucking his little sister. Even if I had something against Henderson’s stardom, I’d never do that to Olive.

Protecting my peace came first, so instead of answering all of their personal questions, I simply told them I had a good support system that’s helped me acclimate to the team. Not entirely the truth, but also not a complete lie either.

Cracking my neck and sinking into my seat, I raise my glass to my lips and take a long sip of the scotch. The only time I glance over at the owner of the establishment is to dip my chin in appreciation when she winks at me and gives the guys their orders. Some of them ask for food, some of them ask her out. She laughs it off like it’s a common joke among the group, which it probably is.

There’s a subtle blush to her cheeks when her eyes glance in Clarkson’s direction, but it goes unnoticed by the man himself. He’s oblivious and it tugs my lips up as he leans over and says something to Smith Miller about a few tactics he’d talked to Pelfrey about practicing when we come back for pre-season.

Only then does Belle snap out of whatever thought she’s in and nods at something Berkley tells her, her professional face back in place as she turns to me. “Do you want anything to eat, Alex?”

My first name on her dark lips—some shade of sultry purple—startles me. I’ve seen Olive wear a similar shade when we went to a highlighter party together back in Lindon. I don’t know what she put on her lips, but they glowed in the dark that night and made them more alluring than they already were to me.

It’s rare that anybody uses my name other than my mother or Olive. If I’m not having ‘O’Conner’ shouted at me, it’s usually ‘forty-three’, ‘dickhead’, or ‘motherfucker’.

Ironically, most of those names are thrown in my direction by the same fiery green-eyed, dirty blond who my conscious keeps coming back to in silent taunt.

“Looks like he wants your number,” Moskins snickers, reaching over and punching my shoulder as if we’re buddy-buddy. He’s never done anything to me, but I still have a feeling about the guy that makes me want to keep my distance.

I give a subtle glance in Clarkson’s direction to see any type of reaction from the comment, but he’s staring down at his phone as if he’s not even here at all.

We all have secrets.

I wonder what his is.

“I’m good,” I tell Belle, rolling my tight shoulders.

“On getting my number or some food?” Her response is playful, light. Something I’m not entirely used to. Casual has become a thing of the past when it comes to women because something always gets in the way. “Because we have a great chef here who knows how to utilize the kitchen.”

“And you?” I ask, playing along with her banter.

Her tongue dips out and runs along her lower lip for a moment. “It’s not the kitchen I’m good at utilizing. My skillset is elsewhere.”

From the corner of my eye, I see Clarkson’s jaw tick as he sets his phone down onto the table. When his attention lifts, it only lands on Belle for a few short seconds before shifting to me. “You going to order or not, O’Conner? I want my damn cheese fries.”

Miller chuckles from beside him, and Moskins grins like he suspects the same thing I do based on the gruff question shot at me. I’m not offended. We all probably have territory we’ve claimed and would get mad at when someone else stepped on it.

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