Page 18 of Forecheck
“Loft” was a woefully inadequate term to describe the space that took up no less than half a city block, and to say it was industrial would have been an understatement, though no other word came to mind. The walls consisted of metal sheets screwed directly into the frame of the building and worn brick along the exterior. Exposed heating and cooling ducts crisscrossed over the ceiling. The floor was poured concrete that had probably once been polished to a high shine but was now scuffed in high-traffic areas. There were large couches and comfortable-looking armchairs arranged sporadically about the space in conversational groupings, and a giant glass and metal bar dominated the center of the wall to my left.
There were people everywhere.
“What do you think?” Brent asked me, raising his voice to be heard over the old school Eminem blasting from the sound system.
“It’s definitely not what I was expecting!”
“In a good or bad way?”
I glanced up at him then, and something in my face must’ve emboldened him to reach for me, because he settled a warm hand on the small of my back, bringing us closer so we didn’t have to scream at each other.
“Definitely a good way,” I answered with a grin.
“Good,” he said, smile unfurling to match. Then he turned to my friends. “Now how about we get you ladies some drinks?”
“Hell yes,” Lexie said from behind me, and as a group, we migrated toward the alcohol.
“You can order whatever you want.” Brent told them. “It’s fully stocked and completely free.”
Lexie, apparently needing no further encouragement, moved away from us to find an empty space at the other end.
“‘Free alcohol’ are my two favorite words,” Kimber said. Amelia nodded in agreement, and both of them slid up to the bar in the middle of the throng.
I didn’t follow, though, and Brent remained at my side. Instead, I spun in a slow circle, taking in the space. The bodies writhing to the music, the clusters of people conversing, laughing, and drinking. This party might be hosted by NHL players, but it was really no different than the numerous house parties I’d attended during undergrad in East Lansing.
Before I could unroot myself and head for the bar, Brent leaned close.
“I love your costume.”
I snapped my eyes to his, then glanced down at myself. For years, I’d been dying to dress up as Alicia Silverstone inClueless, and this year had been my chance at last. I’d donned Cher’s iconic yellow plaid skirt and jacket combo, white socks pulled up to my knees, my feet stuffed into white patent leather t-strap heels I’d scored at a thrift store only yesterday. I’d left my long hair down in a straight blonde curtain.
“And I love yours,” I told him. With the glasses, the white shirt unbuttoned to reveal a blue tee emblazoned with the Superman logo, and those dress pants, he was a wet dream come to life. Not to mention, with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, showcasing both forearms covered in tattoos, well…I was a fucking goner.
“What do you want to drink?” he asked, close enough now that the words were barely above a whisper.
“Beer is good.”
“Anything in particular? ‘Beer’ is a pretty broad category.”
“I hate IPAs and anything too heavy,” I said. “I’m partial to lighter craft Michigan beers.”
“I know just the one then,” he said, turning away from me and offering our drink order to the bartender. A minute later, the guy pushed two full-to-the-brim glasses across the counter to us.
I accepted mine from Brent and took a tentative sip. It was crisp and cool and went down smooth—exactly how I liked it.
“I love it,” I said when Brent shot me an imploring look. “What is it?”
“It’s a light lager from this brewery in the Upper Peninsula. It’s not widely available down here yet, but it’s Mitch’s favorite, so he pays a pretty penny to stock kegs of it. Perks of being a professional athlete,” he said with a wink.
“Mitch Frambough owns this?”
“I sure do,” the man in question said as he approached me and Brent.
Where Brent was tall and broad shouldered but not overly bulky, Mitch was a giant. Though only an inch of height tipped the scales in Mitch’s favor, everything else about him was just…big. Thick arms and thighs, a broad torso, and heavy, barely wavy blond hair that fell to his shoulders—Mitch was built more like a linebacker than a hockey defenseman. He was dressed, of all things, like a pilot, though his cap was settled backward on his head, aviators hooked on his shirt collar.
I felt about two inches tall standing between them.
“This place is incredible,” I told him.
