Page 42 of Don't Say You're Sorry

“Come on,” I say. “Give me an easier one.”

“Mai Tai.”

Grinning, I grab the rum and get to it, even managing to pull off one of her fancy bottle flips. Topping the drink with a lime slice and a cherry, I hand it to her with a little dramatic bow.

“Not bad.” She discreetly takes a sip.

“Are you allowed to drink that?”

“Mick doesn’t mind us having one or two. Just don’t let anyone see you just in case.”

She holds the drink out to me in offering, but I shake my head. “I’m good, thanks.”

She sets it behind the bar, checks her watch, and pulls out her phone, using her free hand to serve another patron. I’m not one to pry, but when she turns her phone sideways and props it against the Mai Tai I made her, I can’t help but peek. And when I see the live video playing, I do a double take—she’s watching Easton’s game.

“You’re a Hawks fan?” I ask.

“My little brother’s number three. Bryson West.” She tips her head at his face on the screen. “Which one’s your brother?”

“Easton Miller. Number twenty-one. He’s my stepbrother,” I correct her.

“I know Easton.”

Not that well, I hope.

I cringe at the unbidden thought. Maybe working here isn’t the best idea, after all. I can’t keep wondering if every girl in here has found her way into Easton’s bed. I’ll go insane.

As the night goes on and the club gets busier, Megan and I work alongside each other and watch the game, taking turns to shout out the score every few seconds during busier times. Thereare only a few minutes left on the clock, and the Hawks are winning, though not by much. It’s close.

Easton’s not himself tonight. I mean, heis—he’s grinning and doing that little hip rolling dance he and Carter do every time they score—but something is off. It’s his energy. His body language. The way he’s playing and holding himself. It’s not right.

I wonder if I’m the only one who can tell.

I keep glancing at the screen, worrying my lip between my teeth, and catch Megan eyeing me funny—but she doesn’t call me out.

By some miracle, I manage not to fuck up any drinks as the clock ticks down to the final minute. I watch out of the corner of my eye as Easton steals the ball from the other team and runs with it. Just as he’s about to pass to Nate, someone fouls Easton, and he goes down, his back hitting the court.

Time stands still. My heart pounds in my ears, and I begin to sweat as I wait for him to get up.

Get up, damn it.

Nate and Carter haul Easton to his feet, and he shoves the other player in the chest. The guy steps in, their foreheads pressed together as they argue. I know Easton’s body like my own, and everything about his stance screams he’s about to snap. But before he can, Nate and Carter block him, forming a wall between him and the guy he’s gunning for. They crowd him, pushing him back, and Nate lowers his head, murmuring something. Easton’s shoulders are up to his ears. Nate keeps talking, then grabs his face and gives it a shake. Finally, Easton exhales, shoulders dropping as he nods and steps up to the free-throw line.

Megan and I both watch the ball fall through the hoop both times, the second shot going in just as the final whistle blows.The Hawks win. Megan cheers and pours herself a shot. I push out a relieved breath, my heart still racing as I get back to work.

The next hour and a half goes by quickly. The club is getting busier as the night rolls on, but I’m managing to keep up just fine. It’s keeping my thoughts away from Easton. Sort of. I still find myself studying the girls in here from time to time, wondering which of them Easton might have hooked up with. He doesn’t have a preference when it comes to hair color or body type. He’s drawn to people’s energy. Their vibe and the way they vibe with him. The tiny, five-foot-nothing blonde girl I’m making a vodka tonic for is too quiet for him. Too shy. He’d eat her alive. Her friend though? She’s exactly the type of girl he’d go for. Taller. Brown hair. Nice lips. A big mouth…

“I haven’t seen you before,” she yells at me to be heard over the noise. “Are you new?”

“Yeah. It’s my first shift.”

“Oh my God. You’re British.”

I chuckle awkwardly and nod.

Leaning her forearms on the bar, she pushes up on her tiptoes and asks, “Do I have a shot with you?”

I shake my head. “I’m?—

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