Cooper winced at the volume of his agent’s outrage. He glanced over at the clock beside his king-size bed. One in the morning. Further proof that Golden didn’t give a shit about anyone but himself.
“Did you forget how much Lone Wolf Brewery pays you to drink the bottled piss they are trying to pass off to the world as beer? Because let me assure you, the answer is ‘a lot,’ Mead.”
“I know.”
“Oh, you know? Then why the hell is the internet full of pictures of you, in a bar, holding a goddamn highball glass full of not–Lone Wolf beer?”
Cooper pinched the bridge of his nose, reminding himself that Jared Golden had contributed a lot of zeroes to his bank account and that hanging up was not in his best interest. “I didn’t drink it.”
“Oh, well, great. Then everything’s fine. I’ll just explain that to the guys at Lone Wolf. Don’t worry! Mead didn’t actually jeopardize his multimillion-dollar contract with you guys by flagrantly disregarding the exclusivity clause in his contract—he didn’t swallow!”
Cooper ran a weary hand across his face. Jared Golden in full panic mode was a lot to take. “I get photographed in clubs all the time. Holding their beer. I’m living up to the deal.”
“Jesus Christ, Coop! You used to get photographed in clubs all the time. Since you went to Portland, you’ve been MIA.”
“I’ve been a hockey player. We’re getting ready for a championship run here. I have responsibilities to the team.”
“You have responsibilities to your corporate sponsors, too! Lone Wolf isn’t the only company we’re on thin ice with. I spent all day convincing PWR Athletics that you’re still the best brand ambassador their money can buy! But I need you on board, Mead. I need you to be seen out and about, and wearing their goddamn T-shirts! You’re already behind on media appearances for them, and don’t think they haven’t noticed. You’re on their radar now, and they’re going to nail you for every breach of protocol they can find so they can put you out to pasture.”
“I’m thirty-two!” The words burst out before he could stop them. Cooper was well aware he was getting up there in the world of sports, but it still rankled. And he was good at hockey—great even. He made sure of it. Which was why he’d devoted more time to training and less time to the gossip blogs lately.
“Exactly. You know the average retirement age for hockey players? Twenty-eight. We need to make money while you’re still a viable commodity! Before they dismiss you and start turning to the new generation. But you need to do your part.”
“If you want viable, then I gotta get some sleep. I’ve got practice tomorrow.”
“I’m serious, dude. You need to keep your eye on the prize.”
“I’ll try not to let us down,” Cooper said drily.
“Don’t be an asshole. You hired me to make you money. And so far, I’ve fulfilled my part of the bargain. But if you want me to convince another gravy train to pull into the station, you’re going to have to do your part. You’ve only got a few good years left.”
Like he didn’t know it.
Thirty minutes later, Cooper sat in his GranTurismo S in a deserted parking lot, questioning his sanity.
After he’d hung up with Golden, he’d lain there on his king-size mattress, staring up at the twelve-foot ceilings of his new condo and feeling sorry for himself before he couldn’t take it anymore. He had to get out. But when he’d rolled out of bed and pulled on some jeans and a black T-shirt, he’d had no intention of winding up back here.
Of course, when he’d pulled on his black leather jacket and double-checked his hair in the mirror before grabbing his keys, there’d been no doubt The Drunken Sportsman would be his destination.
Now that he was actually there—and judging by the lack of cars, he was the only one—he was rethinking the entire trip. There were a lot of reasons to go back home, but only one to stay. A very compelling reason with long black hair, an intriguingly sharp tongue and an ass that wouldn’t quit.
Mind made up, Cooper levered himself out of the matte black Maserati and headed for the door. His security system beeped as he armed it before stowing his keys in his pocket.
Bells on the door jingled as he pushed into the old bar. It smelled like spilled beer and desperation, which he found oddly comforting tonight. Misery loved company, he supposed.
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
Lainey was standing in almost the same spot she’d been when they’d talked earlier, but this time she was hunched over the counter and there was a big textbook open almost to the midpoint on the counter in front of her and a yellow highlighter in her right hand.
“You talk to all your customers that way?” he asked, gesturing to the deserted tables. “In other news, I think I figured out why your bar is empty.” Cooper shrugged out of his coat without breaking stride.
She cocked an eyebrow as he approached, recapping the highlighter and stowing it in her apron. Obviously expecting a showdown, she braced her palms on the counter in front of her, on either side of the book. The stance, along with his height, gave him a tantalizing view of her cleavage.
“Oh, you’re a customer, are you?”
He slung his jacket on the barstool to his left and held up his hands in surrender. “I’m just here for the beer,” Cooper assured her, taking a seat. “Lone Wolf, if you’ve got it,” he said, out of habit. Then, just to shove it to Golden for being a prick, “Actually, give me something imported.”
She said nothing as she reached down and grabbed a bottle from an unseen bar fridge. The snap and hiss as she twisted off the cap was the only sound in the cavernous room. For a second, Coop wasn’t sure she was going to give him the beer, but after a moment of contemplation, she set it in front of him.
“How much?” he asked, shifting on the stool so he could grab his wallet out of his back pocket.
To his surprise, she shook her head as she tossed the cap into a white bucket beside the sink. “Don’t worry about it.”
“You sure?”
She nodded, leaning against the counter behind her and crossing her arms over her white tank. “Yeah. Some raging megalomaniac came in earlier and I charged him fifty bucks for unsportsmanlike conduct, so you’re covered.”
Cooper accepted the jibe, raising the bottle in a mocking toast. “To that guy,” he said, before taking a swig of cold, amber liquid.
She bit back a smile, and he was buoyed by the small show of encouragement. “It’s Cooper, by the way. Not mega-whatever you said.”
She tried to stop it, he could tell, but despite her efforts, there was a slight thaw in her demeanor. “Already forgot my name, huh?”
He rubbed a hand over his stubbled jaw. “Ice Queen, isn’t it? Kudos to your mom and dad. It suits you.”
Her smile was real this time. Really real, and it kind of made him wish they’d met this way—because of insomnia and liquor—instead of Brett’s stupid practical joke. It had been a mistake on Cooper’s part. He’d been playing hockey too long to not expect some vengeance from the rookie, especially since Brett had been pretty pissed off when Coach Taggert had given his spot in the starting lineup to Cooper.
He took another sip of beer. “So, Lainey,” he said, oddly vindicated at the slight widening of her gray-blue eyes. He’d caught her off guard. “Whatcha reading?”
“Advanced Principles of Marketing.” She gave a one-shouldered shrug, as if to say, “no big deal.”
He nodded, popping old insecurities that bubbled to the surface. “Not bad. I preferred the sequel.”
“Pickup artist and