Page 11 of The Head Game

But it suited them both to have Nico wrap around him or lean on him and Nico kinda liked the way Matty’s giant hand felt pressed against his hip, even if it wasn’t going to lead to sex.

But, eventually, Matty got immersed in conversation with a couple of the Otters and Nico wandered off again.

When Zane Murphy made a toast to the new code of conduct passing, Nico held up his mostly empty glass, then switched to water.

He’d had a few cocktails over the course of the evening but he already felt like he had a hangover and he wasn’t about to play against Chicago tomorrow with a real one.

When Nico realized he’d been prowling the room like a zoo cat with no enrichment in its cage, he admitted defeat.

He wasn’t in the mood for this party.

He put on his suit jacket, then said good night to everyone, pressing kisses to cheeks and getting hugs in return.

There was a club about a block away he wanted to check out and few ride shares available at the moment, so he decided to walk.

Nico shrugged on his overcoat as he left the bar and was glad he’d packed it because it was cold tonight, the air sharp and bitter against his cheeks. He regretted he hadn’t brought gloves or a toque.

As he skirted around the building, planning to take a shortcut through an alley, a wave of dizziness washed over him.

He stopped, bracing his hand against the brick to steady himself, fear trickling through him.

Something was definitely wrong.

* * *

The air hit August like a slap to the face as he ducked out of Roscoe’s Tavern.

November in Evanston, Illinois, was always a crapshoot. Occasionally unseasonably warm, but more often rainy and windy or icy cold.

It was bitter tonight, August’s breath steaming in big puffy clouds as he hunched his shoulders and pulled his scarf a little tighter around his neck, flipping up the collar of his navy wool peacoat to block the wind.

He struck out at a quick walk toward his hotel, hoping the crisp air would clear his fuzzy head.

The linesmen he’d been drinking with at Roscoe’s were still going, enjoying their beers and the game of pickup pool they’d started.

August had begged off after a couple of drinks, aware that tonight of all nights, more would lead to something stupid like texting Daniel.

He refused to humiliate himself by sending his ex-boyfriend pathetic messages on his wedding night.

August’s steps faltered.

God, where were they honeymooning? Had they left tonight or were they staying in a Toronto hotel before they flew out tomorrow?

Right this minute, were they slow dancing or had they already slipped out of the reception?

Was Daniel’s new husband stripping him out of his suit and kissing every exposed inch of his skin?

August’s stomach tightened at the thought and he slowed to a stop, oddly winded.

He leaned against the rough brick wall of a nearby building and pulled out his phone to open Instagram, torturing himself by bringing up Daniel’s profile for the umpteenth time tonight.

Daniel had posted a picture of their first dance, looking utterly handsome and utterly in love.

That yawning ache in August’s chest reappeared and he closed the app with a sigh.

He needed to stop.

When he cleared a few notifications, the message from his brother he’d ignored earlier popped up.

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