"You what?" Her comment hit me worse than a high stick to the face; my blood immediately started boiling. Of all the words she could have chosen, she had to go and pick the only ones that were like a knife to the jugular. "You feel sorry for me? What the fuck, Avery?" I stood up abruptly, scraping the stool across the wood floor. "Oh, I'm some pathetic loser who runs some two-bit bar in some nothing town-"

"I didn't say that!"

"Some useless hockey player who can't even put on a pair of skates anymore? You think I don't already know I'm a failure?"

"You're not-"

"You think I want your pity?"

I was completely riled up and out of control. I could feel my pulse racing and the ache in my forehead where my brows were drawn together too tightly. Avery had gotten to her feet, and I could see she'd taken a few steps back as I advanced.

Seeing her fearful retreat out of my wrath snapped me out of my tirade and forced me to realize what I'd just revealed. I was immediately embarrassed by my outburst, by the emotions I wasn't even fully aware that I possessed. Rage, humiliation, disappointment regret. I had no idea why those feelings chose this moment to come bubbling up to the surface, but there was no stopping them now that they'd been released.

My chest tightened and there was an actual stinging behind my eyes. I was on the verge of losing it and needed to get the hell out of there before I did. "You can show yourself out."

I knew I was being a rude asshole, and I hadn't even processed exactly why. No one wants to be pitied, for godsakes, but as I ascended the stairwell to my apartment, I started to realize that maybe that's not at all what Avery was trying to do.

Chapter Fifteen.

The day of the Stanley Cup party, people were coming and going all day, disrupting my regulars who were trying to get their last moments of boozing in before they got kicked out for the private party. They weren't too happy about the situation, but thankfully, they were pretty understanding regardless.

I'd avoided coming downstairs any more than necessary because I figured the best way to apologize to Avery would be to simply stay out of her way. I'd done so all week, only communicating with her through answering machines and hand-written notes stuck on the register. Simple requests from her; stupid responses from me. I'd leave her jokes or drawings, anything I could think of to try and apologize.

Except, you know, actually saying I was sorry.

Up until now, we were able to keep our distance, as she'd only stop in whenever I wasn't around. (I swore, when I found out which one of my bartenders was tipping her off, I was going to tear them a new asshole.) But now that it was party day, there was no avoiding one another. There was too much hands-on stuff to do that required us to be in the same room at the same time. Well, too much for her to do. I was just an extra body in the way. As evidenced by the fact that we eventually bumped into each other.

Literally.

I was carrying three cases of wine at the time, so my vision was limited. I managed to plow right into her as she came around the corner.

"Sorry," I said, automatically.

"Ha!"

I put the cases down on the nearest hightop, and diverted her before she could scurry away. "Ave, wait! Can we talk for a minute?"

She lowered her clipboard and turned to face me. She was wearing light blue velour sweatpants with a matching hoodie, unzipped to reveal her Punk'd T-shirt underneath. She looked soft, like a favorite stuffed animal you'd want to curl up with in your bed.

She wasn't acting soft, though.

"Why? What do you want?" she asked, clearly exasperated by more than just the hectic pace of the past hours.

"I know you're busy, but" I scanned my eyes around the room, taking note of everyone scurrying around, the customers sitting at the bar. I knew she was due an apology, but it was awkward to execute with so many people around, and I just couldn't find the words. "I wanted to talk to you. About the other day."

She could see I wasn't going to tell her what she deserved to hear. "Maybe it will be best if we just avoid one another today, okay, Zac?"

I was a little put off that she was treating me like a disease in my own bar, but I figured I'd let her call the shots right now. I owed her at least that much. "Yeah. Okay."

Since my attentions weren't required downstairs, and since I was trying to avoid Avery anyway, I went back up to my apartment to lie down and try to take a nap. I lay there for a full thirty minutes, but it was no use. I was feeling too guilty about my fight with Avery, and too edgy about the fact that I was going to be in the same room with my old teammates again. The last time we'd all been here together, I was a player. And now Now I was going to be the guy serving their drinks.

Running this place was an honest way to make a living, so I shouldn't have been embarrassed about the fact that I was doing it. But let's be fucking real, here. It was decidedly a step down from the adulation and glory of being a sports star. Most things were.

And yet I suddenly realized I cared more about what Avery thought of me than the opinion of my old teammates. And I was being unnecessarily stubborn at not offering up an apology. Why was it so hard for me to accept when I was wrong?

Maybe because the only other girl who stuck around long enough for me to hurt her eventually split because of it. Not that I can blame her. A person can only deal with such jackassery for so long. Julie hung in there longer than I ever expected, though, gave me more credit for being human than I deserved. Until finally, she got tired of my bullshit and moved on.

She never expected an apology whenever I screwed up. Maybe she just didn't hold me to a high enough standard. Or maybe she just realized I was incapable of admitting when I was wrong. Maybe she never cared about me enough to bother. And why would she? I only hurt her, over and over, until she finally realized she'd had enough.

And then she left.

Later that evening, I came down to join the circus. There was a more formal reception planned for the fall, but for now, this was just the party, and it looked as though everyone was more than ready to get it started.

Avery had hired a phenomenal band, and they were playing Iron Maiden's "Number of the Beast," kicking some serious ass in the process. The place was already rocking, and I got caught up in the energy and excitement as I said hello and shook some hands. A few of the old-timers had been invited, and it was pretty frigging awesome to meet some of my childhood idols. They were living legends, for chrissakes, guys I'd watched on my television back when my head was filled with dreams. And now here they were, right here in my bar.

Most of my former teammates were congregating over at the long wall, signing the collectors' sweaters and photos that were slated to be auctioned off for charity. They signed all the gear, then posed for pictures in front of the customized backdrop while the photographers snapped away. We'd let the press in willingly, but only gave them an hour to take any publicity shots before kicking them out the door.

That's when the real party began.

Avery had spent the week transforming my bar into a New Jersey Devils paradise. There were red tablecloths over every hightop table and new spotlights installed over every booth. Even my regular high hats were replaced with red bulbs, tossing a fiery glow onto every surface in the room.

Every TV was playing the same highlight reel, all the most stellar moments from this year's playoffs, along with some classic footage of the old guard's athletic feats.

She'd brought in a mobile cooking station and set it up in the corner, and hired a chef to fry up some Taylor Ham and cheese sandwiches. The entire room smelled fucking mouth-watering. She'd had some tables set up near the square bar, and the things were just covered with platters upon platters of Felix's party fare. Sandwiches, french fries, cheesesteaks lots of boardwalk food. There was also an entire dessert table set up with a candy buffet, cranberry salad, and pastries from Calandra's. She'd commissioned a cake from a place called Carlo's down in Hoboken, baked in the shape of the New Jersey Devil himself. It was the coolest thing I'd ever seen. Who knew you could make a statue out of cake?

Avery had resurrected our old drink menu, and had a bunch of hockey-themed cocktails printed onto the chalkboard before hanging it on the wall. Reading them made me snicker. I'd forgotten about Game Misconduct. That drink was a killer. Seeing it sent a shock of nostalgia straight into my brain.

My father would have loved this.

I checked in with my bartending staff to make sure they were okay, then detoured into the kitchen to see if Felix had everything under control. Of course he did.

I came back out to the bar just as Avery stepped up to the platform. She looked incredible. Her sweatpants-and-T-shirt combo had been replaced with a skintight red dress that showed off every luscious curve. Black-and-red fuck-me heels accentuated her toned calves. Her auburn hair fell around her face in messy curls, the kind of hair that looked like she'd just rolled out of bed. Or wanted to be invited into one.

She was simply stunning, and I found it hard to draw air into my lungs, much less form a cohesive sentence.

Thankfully, I wasn't the one doing the talking.

She took over the small stage and welcomed everyone for coming before handing the mic off to the commissioner. There was a lot of back-patting and shoulder-clapping as he introduced the money behind the team, and everyone in the room tried to seem enraptured as they politely suffered through the boring speeches. It was all a bunch of bull, but a necessary evil during an event like this.

Because everyone was focused on the stage, and because Avery was walking right by me at the time, I took the shot while I could. I didn't say a word as I grabbed her around her waist and pulled her with me through the nearest doorway, which just happened to be the ladies' bathroom.

She gave out a quick yelp, but by the time the door closed behind us, she'd regained her composure. "What the hell, Zac?"

She stood there smoothing out her dress, then dipped her face toward the mirror to check on her hair.

Cut it out. You look gorgeous.

I met her reflection in the mirror, put my hands on her shoulders and said, "I feel really bad about screaming in your face the other day. You didn't deserve that."

Her eyes met mine in a hesitant sigh. "I was trying to be playful. I swear I wasn't pitying you. I was only trying to bust your chops and my words came out all wrong." She didn't owe me an explanation, but I was happy to hear one all the same.

"I know. I know that now. I just I'm sorry." There. Was that so damned hard? "You unknowingly struck a nerve. I just got overly defensive, I guess."

She turned to face me, saying, "I thought you were an offensive player."

I did a double-take at her words, and caught the smirk on her face. "Damn straight," I chuckled, glad that we were apparently friends again.

"Did you see it yet?" she asked.

I knew exactly what she was talking about, so I didn't bother with the dirty comeback and simply grabbed her hand to lead her out the door.

We walked together to the end of the long bar where the guys had been taking pictures earlier. Next to the backdrop, on a marble pedestal was The Fucking Stanley Cup.

There it was. The frigging Holy Grail, right there at my fingertips. I knew the thing was in for a continued life of debauchery, and was curious to see what fate it held for the night ahead.

The Stars won it the year I was with them, but as I was dealing with bigger things that summer, I didn't share in the celebration. Besides, I was only on the team for four months, most of which was spent riding the pines. I didn't feel a part of the win.

But it still had my name carved into the side.

I found it easily enough, and ran my fingers over the engraved letters: Z. McAllister.

Jesus. My name was on the goddamn Stanley cup. The fucking Cup! I couldn't believe my eyes, but there it was.

And it sure looked pretty sitting in my bar.

Avery was a whirlwind. It was amazing to see her floating around the room, playing hostess, taking care of every little detail, so confident, so self-assured. I couldn't take my eyes off her.

She was so different from my memories. Back then, I thought she was just a sweet, shy girl who gave a whole new dimension to the term 'puck bunny.' She loved hockey but was scared as a rabbit. I didn't realize how wrong I was until that one night when we- "Maniac! How the hell are you?"

I turned at the unmistakable voice of Guillaume, clapping me on the shoulder with one hand, a drink spilling over in the other.

"Guy! You old son of a bitch. How are you?" I asked as we took a seat at one of the hightops. Damn. I really missed this dude.

"Oh, fine, fine. Finally have a drink in my hand, so all is good."

"Who are you kidding, 'finally'? You never stop drinking."

"Well, if I never stop drinking, I don't have to be hungover."

We both had a laugh over that one. The two of us made small talk for a little while until some of the other guys decided to join us, and we instantly found ourselves reminiscing about the old days. Soon enough, we had the rowdiest table in the place.

Especially once my brothers got involved.

They'd snuck in through the kitchen, but I wasn't exactly surprised. I knew they'd find a way to crash this party. I supposed it was easier to break into a place when you had the key.

The band was killer, and it wasn't too hard to sense a theme with their music. They were in the middle of The Stones' "Sympathy for the Devil," but they'd already played "Devil Went Down to Georgia," "Devil in a Blue Dress," fucking Cliff Richard's "Devil Woman," a couple of Judas Priest tunes, something from Spinal Tap for godsakes Jesus, there were a lot of Devil songs.

When they broke into Van Halen's "Running with the Devil," we all pretty much lost our shit. It was our unofficial fight song, and the walls shook as every last one of us screamed the lyrics back at the band. Yes, we were drunk. But goddamn if it wasn't one hell of a good time.

Avery's father shot a warning look in our direction before realizing that he didn't need to play babysitter-at least for a few more months, anyway. His grimace relaxed as his face met mine in a genuine smile, which was surprising, to say the least.

Aside from a handshake and quick hello, I hadn't gone out of my way to talk with the guy. Avery and I had been able to clear the air about our misunderstandings, but I hadn't cleared up anything with him. The fact remained that the man tossed me out like trash.

But even though I still carried a huge chip on my shoulder about it, it was actually kind of nice to see him enjoying himself.

It was nice to see everyone enjoying themselves. Especially me.

Alice came by to take our drink orders, which was odd, because she normally wouldn't deign to emerge from behind the bar. Taking orders was for the cocktail waitresses, not my head bartender. As I mentioned previously, she wasn't the most pleasant person, but thankfully, she was all smiles as she asked, "Now what would you boys like?"

Travis leered back, announcing, "I think I'd rather not say in the presence of a lady, darlin'."

Alice pressed a hand to the hightop and placed her face within inches of Trav's. "Let me know when you find one." With that, she reached across Guillaume and downed one of his awaiting shots.

The guys all howled as Travis put an arm around Alice's waist, pulling her between his knees. I figured he was about to get a fist between his eyes for that, but instead, Alice smiled and said, "You're cute. We don't get too many cowboys around here."

Travis amped up his twang to reply, "Darlin', that's because I'm the only cowboy this town needs."

We all groaned and rolled our eyes, Guillaume going so far as to throw a crumpled napkin at Travis's head.

He didn't let that affect his game, however, because he gave Alice another quick squeeze and asked, "What time do you get off, Blondie?"

Alice was in rare form. She smirked and answered, "I guess whatever time you show up to my apartment."

There was a collective "Ooooooh!" like we were the goddamn canned sound effects from an episode of Married with Children. We were all laughing through our jeers, until Travis finally released my employee and Guillaume complained, "This guy. He makes it look so easy."

I was having fun with my old friends, but I found my eyes wandering involuntarily any time I'd catch a flash of red in my peripheral vision.

Avery was a sight to behold. I knew that brain of hers must have been going a mile a minute, but outwardly, she appeared calm, cool, and collected. I couldn't look away.

The band started in with The Beatles' "Devil in her Heart," and I used that as a good enough excuse to get my hands on her.

I excused myself from the table and walked up behind Avery. "Dance with me."

She turned, startled to see me there. My expression must have been both wolfish and convincing, because her eyes went a bit wider as she stammered out an "Okay."

I slipped my arms around her and spun her out to the floor. It was the first sustained contact I'd made with her delectable body in all these weeks of being near her, and my senses became all too aware of that fact. The dress at her waist was silky but I slid my hand up a few inches to rest on the exposed skin of her back. Her flesh was warm and smooth, and her neck smelled like fresh air and cinnamon? Jesus Christ, she smelled like fucking cookies. Was that her perfume? Do they make cookie-scented perfume? They really should.

For the record, I'll mention that I'm also a proponent for a bacon-scented fragrance, just in case anyone out there has the power to make that happen.