Playing Dirty. Taryn Leigh Taylor

Brett Sillinger’s relentless requests to “grab a beer and talk hockey.” He fully regretted the decision now.

      He’d assumed there would be a group of them heading out for one last drink before playoffs got underway. But when he’d asked around the dressing room after practice, it turned out he was on his own. Every player on the team had somewhere else to be—captain Luke Maguire was going to some media shindig with his intrepid reporter girlfriend, centerman Eric Jacobs was meeting some after-hours contractor at the bakery he owned and goaltender Tyson Mackinaw’s kids were performing in some school play.

      The rest of the team’s excuses followed in those footsteps: wife, wife, girlfriend, kids, girlfriend’s kids.

      Jesus. Everyone on this damn team was—or acted like—an old married guy.

      Except for him...and Brett of course.

      And for reasons Cooper couldn’t possibly explain, the rookie had chosen the worst bar imaginable—a run-down watering hole that probably catered to former high school jocks bent on reliving their glory days through ESPN highlights. And he didn’t even have the decency to show up on time.

      As if to confirm Cooper’s suspicions, the bell on the door dinged and in lumbered a whole flock of washed-up jocks decked out in the finest basketball paraphernalia the mall had to offer.

      “Hey there, beautiful lady. Turn up that TV! The game starts in ten minutes.”

      Coop’s fingers tightened on his Black Widow. The bartender’s smile was full-bodied and sexy when it wasn’t tinged with acid, and he hated that some loudmouth sporting love handles and an ill-fitting Trail Blazers jersey was the recipient and not him.

      “Larry, you only think I’m beautiful because I didn’t raise the happy hour price of beer.” Her admonishment was accompanied by the familiar singsong lilt of sportscasters everywhere as she hit the volume button on the remote.

      “Sweetcheeks—” Cooper did his best to stifle a gag at the endearment “—you know that’s not true. One word from you and I’d—holy hockey pucks, you’re Cooper Mead!”

      So much for lying low.

      “Wow, you’re, like, a real athlete! A famous one! Man, you think you could sign something for my kid? He totally idolizes you! And the guys! The whole team! I do, too. I mean, that slap shot of yours? Big fan. We all are! Thanks to you, the Storm might have a real shot in the playoffs.” He offered with an expansive gesture. “Guys! Check it out! Cooper Mead! At our bar.”

      The chorus of greetings and swears of disbelief were accompanied by the materialization of cell phones. Calls were placed. Photos were snapped. The couple from the other side of the bar wandered over. Not exactly how he’d planned to spend his evening, but at least Golden would be happy.

      With a resigned sigh, he brought his drink to his lips.

      He stopped just in time.

      Suicide by toxic sludge was never the answer.

      Instead, Cooper turned on his best PR smile and accepted the napkin being thrust in his direction. “Who should I make this out to?”

      * * *

      “WHAT THE HELL happened here?”

      The deep voice ripped into a close inspection of her palm, and Lainey looked up from her crouched position in front of the open beer fridge. From this vantage point, the man fingering the assortment of bottles she’d left on the counter appeared even taller than usual.

      Darius Johnson. Prelaw student, smart-ass and not a big fan of hers. Which Lainey figured made sense, seeing as he was her fa—Martin’s last hire.

      Also, she’d cleaned house when she’d first arrived, firing a dishonest bartender and a couple of slothful waitresses. Despite the months that had passed, Lainey got the impression that the remaining staff were still a little wary that she’d go all “off with their heads” on them at any moment. She didn’t bother doing anything to disabuse them of that notion. It didn’t matter if Darius was fun to spar with, or that she kind of enjoyed Aggie’s no-nonsense wisdom. Lainey was here to sell the bar. She wasn’t looking to make friends.

      All in all, Darius was a solid bartender and great with the regulars. And Lainey wasn’t above exploiting the fact that he was popular with the coeds—they loved his soulful eyes, café-au-lait complexion and killer smile. Or at least those were some of the giggled compliments she’d heard when they were gathered at the counter, fawning over him on a Friday night. They didn’t seem to mind his stupid goatee, either.

      She let the flirting stand, because if you could get the ladies into a bar, the guys would follow. And the fact that some of Darius’s fellow students were choosing to spend their money in a crappy sports bar instead of a flashy nightclub did good things for the bottom line. And it was a bottom line that needed all the help it could get.

      Still, that didn’t keep her from imagining firing Darius at least three times per shift, if only for the peace and quiet.

      “Give me a hard time for not keeping my workspace clear, but I show up to a mess of bottles on the counter when you’re in charge,” he muttered, the way he always did when he was trying to get under her skin.

      “It was recipe development,” she said simply. “It’s called a Black Widow.”

      Darius frowned as he set the Cinnamon Schnapps back on the shelf. “You put all this stuff in the same glass? Whoever he was, he must’ve really pissed you off.”

      Embarrassed, Lainey rubbed her fingers against her cheek in a vain attempt to extinguish the lingering prickle where Cooper’s knuckles had touched her. “Don’t think I didn’t notice that you’re late.” She made sure her voice was as frosty as the draft mugs that rattled when she slammed the cooler door. “For future reference, your shifts are posted in Pacific Time.”

      Darius glanced over his shoulder as he returned the Kahlua, the Blue Curacao and some banana liqueur to the appropriate shelves. “He definitely pissed you off.”

      “You pissed me off,” Lainey corrected, standing. “I know Martin let stuff like this slide, but I’m trying to sell this place. I can’t afford not to have things running smoothly.”

      “You keep saying that, but you’ve been here for three months and counting. I’m starting to think we’re never gonna be rid of you.”

      Lainey pulled a face at his broad back when he turned to clean up her mess.

      “You know I can see you in this mirror, right?”

      She schooled her features into a neutral expression. “And you know that I have the power to fire you, right?”

      “Well, before you let all your authority go to your head and I end up suing you for wrongful termination, you should probably check your phone. I texted you that I was running late. But I’ll let it go, because I’m in a stellar mood. Sandra and I shared a hell of a goodbye before her Uber showed up to take her to the airport.”

      Darius’s expression was dripping with satisfaction. “Which is why I got here late, if you know what I mean.” He waited a beat. “And what I mean is that we had copious amounts of sexual intercourse.”

      “Thanks for the clarification, wonder stud.” Lainey rolled her eyes at him. “But I’m not sure that’s the type of excuse that will stand up in court. As a future lawyer, you’ll want to familiarize yourself with labor laws.”

      The well-timed entrance of Agnes Demille saved Lainey from Darius’s retort. The zaftig waitress materialized from the “Staff Only” door to their right, plopped her massive gold lamé purse on the counter behind the bar, grimaced and slung it back on her shoulder. “Honestly, you two. I’ve been here for thirty seconds, and there’s already a table full of customers with no beer and a sticky counter. This ain’t no way to run a business. ’Specially on game night. Let’s get a move on, people! Darius, hand me that rag.”

      Darius