The Deal

I can’t believe I was ever nervous about coming to the bar tonight, because holy moly, I’m having a blast. At the moment, I’m crammed in a booth next to Garrett, and we’re involved in a heated debate with Tucker and Simms, arguing about technology, of all things. Tucker won’t budge on his position that young kids shouldn’t be allowed to watch more than an hour of TV a day. I’m totally with him on that, but Garrett and Simms disagree, and the four of us have been bickering about it for more than twenty minutes now. I’m ashamed to admit it, but I honestly didn’t expect all these hockey players to have articulate opinions about non-hockey-related matters, but they’re a lot more insightful than I gave them credit for.

“Children need to be outside riding their bikes and catching frogs and climbing trees,” Tucker insists, waving his pint glass in the air as if to punctuate his point. “It’s not healthy for them to be cooped up indoors staring at a screen all day.”

“I agree about everything except for the frogs part,” I pipe up. “Because frogs are slimy and gross.”

The guys burst out laughing.

“Sissy,” Simms teases.

“Aw, come on, Wellsy, give the frogs a chance,” Tucker protests. “Did you know that if you lick the right one you might get high?”

I stare at him in horror. “I have zero interest in licking a frog.”

Simms hoots. “Not even to get the prince?”

Good-natured groaning rings out.

“Nope, not even then,” I say firmly.

Tucker takes a deep swig of beer before winking at me. “How about licking something other than a frog? Or are you anti-licking altogether?”

My cheeks scorch at the innuendo, but the impish glimmer in his eyes tells me he’s not trying to be crude, so I respond with my own dose of innuendo. “Naah, I’m pro-licking. As long as I’m licking something tasty.”

Another round of hoots breaks out, but Garrett doesn’t join in. When I glance over at him, I notice that his eyes have flared with heat.

I wonder if he’s imagining my mouth on his…nope, not going there.

“Shit, someone needs to hog-tie that old dude so he stops monopolizing the jukebox,” Tucker declares when yet another Black Sabbath song blasts through the bar.

We all turn toward the culprit—a local with a bushy red beard and the meanest scowl I’ve ever seen. The moment the karaoke machine shut down for the night, Red Beard had raced to the jukebox and shoved ten bucks worth of quarters inside it, keying in a rock playlist that has so far consisted of Black Sabbath, Black Sabbath, and more Black Sabbath. Oh, and one CCR song that Simms claimed he’d lost his virginity to.

Eventually our debate turns to hockey talk, as Simms tries to convince me that the goalie is the most important player on a hockey team, while Tucker boos him the entire time. The Black Sabbath song blessedly comes to an end, replaced by Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Tuesday’s Gone,” and as the opening strains echo through the bar, I feel Garrett stiffen beside me.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“Nothing.” He clears his throat, then slides out of the booth and tugs me up with him. “Dance with me.”

“To this?” I’m baffled for a moment, until I remember what a huge hard-on he has for Lynyrd Skynyrd. Come to think of it, I’m pretty sure this song was on that playlist he emailed me last week.

Tucker snickers from his side of the booth. “Since when do you dance, G?”

“Since right now,” Garrett mutters.

He leads me to the small area in front of the stage, which is completely empty because nobody else is dancing. Discomfort shifts inside me, but when Garrett holds out his hand, I hesitate for only a second before taking it. Hey, if he wants to dance, then we’ll dance. It’s the least I can do considering how amazing he’s been tonight.

You can say a lot of things about Garrett Graham, but he’s definitely a man of his word. He’s been glued to my side all night, guarding my drinks, waiting outside the bathroom for me, making sure I don’t get harassed by his friends or the locals we’ve met. He’s totally had my back, and because of him, I was able to lower my guard for the first time in a very long time.

God. I can’t believe I ever thought he wasn’t a good guy.

“You know this song is like seven minutes long, right?” I point out as we step onto the dance floor.

“I know.” His tone is casual. Unaffected. But I have the strangest feeling he’s upset about something.