Page 74 of Rookie Season
A cheer erupts that fills the entirety of Mile High.
The Kodiaks are here.
Jay is first, with Clay. Then Miles and a couple of the bench guys. Atlas and Ryan bring up the back.
Jay waves to me, and I nod back because my hands are full. I smile, my head bobbing to the music.
“Nice game,” I call as they approach.
“Thanks. It was touch-and-go there until Miles decided to show up in the second half.”
“I was lulling them into complacency,” Miles says.
“I had to shake them out of it.” Ryan shifts between them with a grin. He’s gorgeous. After the game, he’s freshly showered, his dark, curly hair damp. “Hey, Sierra.”
“Hi.” I can handle myself. Just because a starting guard on the world champion Kodiaks is looking at me as if he’s starved and I’m a steak doesn’t mean I’ll break.
“Catch much of the game?”
“Not much. It’s been a busy night.” Since I introduced a new cocktail list, we’re getting a broader clientele. Everyone is still focused on the team, but we’re pulling in younger fans, more women too.
“I’ll reenact it for you.”
“Yeah, yeah. Keep it in your pants,” Jay pleads, and the other guys laugh.
A group of vaguely familiar women wedges its way in front of the bar, cutting in front of the crowd.
Kodashians. I can tell from their swag.
In the front is a blonde with huge boobs.
She looks vaguely familiar.
I search my memory for a second, then another.
Oh no. It’s Cherry Girl, the one who gave me the insanely hard time over missing her favorite garnish.
“Tequila Sunrise,” she requests.
Her friend picks up a menu off the bar, scanning the cocktail list. “Do you still have the Rookie Season? It’s not on the menu, but?—"
“That was only a Christmas drink, wasn’t it?” one of her friends asks.
“It’s here year-round.”
Their heads snap up as they clock Ryan a few feet down the bar, where he’s claimed a seat next to Atlas and Jay.
“We’re still deciding if it’s seasonal,” I inform Ryan.
“But between us, it’s going to stay,” Ryan tells them.
God, he’s obnoxious. The confident ease.
“It is, is it?” I plant both hands on my hips.
His gaze flicks back to me and lingers, his expression saying every second he’s not looking at me might be a waste. He sizes me up from the toes of my boots to the tip of my ponytail. Then he gets off his seat and rounds the bar.
I throw up both hands. “Excuse me, do I come to your work and get up on the court?!”
