Page 8 of Shots Fired

I’m still staring at the card as I ask, “How did I lose that?”

She smiles sweetly, doing things to me below the waistline that are hard enough to hide in hockey pads, let alone flimsy shorts. “Ah, well, last night—right after you bought the entire bar another round of drinks—you handed it to me and slurred something incomprehensible. It sounded like I could keep it for anything I wanted.”

I pull back and stand up straight, racking my brain for the memories. I mean, I knew I was wasted, and I vaguely remember offering random people drinks, but giving Darcy my Amex? Shit, what else did I say to her? Sure, I’m usually all kinds of crazy when she’s around, but I always keep my alcohol consumption in check. Keeping my feelings hidden is hard enough, never mind with lowered inhibitions and a loose tongue to match.

“Don’t worry,” she sings. “I didn’t use it. Not even for these coffees.”

She takes a sip of her own before stepping inside, and I absentmindedly close the door behind her.

“And how do I know where you live?” She takes off down the hallway, round ass swaying in her floaty, knee-length dress. “You once told me on a night out that you moved into the most expensive apartment complex in Brooklyn, and naturally”—reaching the end of the hallway, she turns on her heel and grins at me—“Archer Moore could only live in the penthouse. It was an easy guess.”

Darcy rounds the corner, leading into what I know is a messy living space, and I stalk after her, still freaking out at what the hell I might’ve said last night when I grind to an abrupt halt.

The dark-haired guy. The prick. Did I tell her or anyone about what had happened? And did he post anything online about it? Part of me thinks—and hopes—Darcy wouldn’t be all smiles and Sawyer would be already blowing up my phone if he had.

I start walking at a slower pace until I find Darcy standing in the middle of my kitchen, coffee in hand, and her cream tote sitting on top of the island next to my credit card. Beside my card, there’s an empty, unwashed cereal bowl I must’ve eaten when I got home last night.

She quirks a brow at me, eyes briefly dropping down my body. Despite the panic manifesting in every cell right now, a sense of satisfaction settles in my gut.

She’s checking me out.

Clearing her throat, she shifts her gaze to explore my large apartment. It’s nice, open plan and expensive, but I’ve done nothing to make it my own. It features gloss white cabinets and a butcher’s block countertop in my kitchen, and a contrastingtan leather couch in my living space. The place is stark and not particularly homey.

Other than the bright girl now hopping onto a stool at my island.

“Thanks for returning my card,” I say, running a hand through my disheveled bedhead.

She crosses her legs over at the knee, causing the dress to ride higher on her perfect thighs.

Oh fuck, Darcy. Don’t do that.

“You’re welcome.” She pauses before bringing the coffee to her mouth. “But I have to confess, it’s not the only reason why I’m here.”

I swallow thickly, back to freaking out over last night. “It’s not?” I ask, casually walking toward the fridge.

She swivels in the stool, tracking my movements across the open-plan space. “No, it’s not. I actually, umm … I came to make sure you were okay. You seemed a little off last night.” She waves a hand out in front of her, setting her coffee cup down on the island. “Like, you were your usual joking self, but you seemed kind of stressed out.”

Pulling out my morning protein shake from the fridge, I twist the cap and down it in two big gulps, wiping the back of my hand across my mouth when I’m done. “What makes you say that?” I inquire.

She uncrosses and then re-crosses her legs in the opposite direction. It’s more of a fidget than it is to get comfortable. “Well, last night was just weird—that’s all. One minute, I had this hot guy all over me, and the next—poof—he was gone.” She giggles. “I thought I was getting lucky and pulling off your moves.”

Her face drops, and I fucking hate that it does. Sad Darcy makes me want to punch things. Equally, Darcy calling another man hot makes me want to rip them apart.

“Anyway, next thing I knew, you were storming past us on the phone and then waltzing back inside, determined to get drunk and buy everyone drinks. You were erratic and weird, so I wanted to check on you.”

Her eyes soften as she looks at me, and I conclude this is way worse—I can just about temper my rage at her sadness, even my thoughts when her dress slips up her thigh. It’s kind and gentle Darcy that does things to me I don’t know what to do with. The beat of my heart is in unfamiliar territory;I’min unfamiliar territory.

I toss my empty shake into the trash and close the fridge. At least she’s clueless about what happened in the bar restroom last night, along with the motives behind slipping her my credit card. I’m tempted to slide it back along the counter and repeat my drunken statement.

“I’m good, Darce. Honestly.” I don’t have another response because what else am I supposed to say? Confess my obsession right here, half naked and hungover?

I’ve never shied away from going after what I want. Not in my career, not with anything in life, and especially not with women.

But this is one girl—my teammate’s sister and coach’s stepdaughter—I know I can’t touch.

Wrapping a piece of blonde hair around her index finger, she nods a couple of times. “Okay. It’s just that Jack said your mum and dad recently got a divorce, and I wondered if that might be troubling you. You never mentioned it before to me, so I hope I’m not overstepping here …” She trails off, eyes softening further.

I want to tell her that she’ll never overstep with me.

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