Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 86105 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86105 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
“Then we have a bigger problem,” she says.
I let out a slow breath. “Fine. Drinks. The three of us.”
Her smile returns. “Good.”
She stands, slipping her phone back into her pocket. “I should go.”
I nod, even though every instinct in me wants to pull her back down beside me, wants to erase the idea of anyone else having her attention tonight.
At the door, she pauses and turns back. “This isn’t me pushing you away,” she says. “It’s me making sure there’s room for both of you.”
I watch her leave, the door clicking shut behind her. I don’t like the idea of Elias.
But I like even less the idea of losing Daisy because I couldn’t get over myself.
Chapter 23
Grizz
Tribeca is buzzing when I step out of the car. In this NYC neighborhood, everyone has somewhere to be, and money to burn doing it.
After a big win in Pittsburgh, I’m back in New York and it’s finally time for the dreaded drinks with Daisy and Elias.
The restaurant Daisy picked sits on the corner of Rector Street—windows glowing, people clustered outside pretending they’re not checking the host stand through the door.
I pause for a beat before going in, tugging my jacket straight. Not nerves but anticipation. I want to do this right for Daisy, even if I still don’t fully understand why this—drinks with her and Elias—is the hill she’s chosen. I trust her, but I don’t love being told this is necessary before I’ve figured out how I feel about it.
Inside, the place is packed. Exposed brick, low ceilings, pretty much what I expected. The bar is slammed, three-deep, bartenders moving fast with that efficient confidence that comes from knowing they’re good at what they do. Conversation rolls over itself in waves—laughter, clinking glass, a Friday night that’s already found its rhythm.
I slide onto an empty stool at the corner of the bar and order a whiskey neat. As I wait, I check my phone. Nothing from Daisy yet.
The whiskey arrives and I take a sip, letting it settle, grounding myself in the burn. I’m staring absently at the shelves behind the bar when I feel someone behind me.
“Sorry,” a voice says, “but we’re having a debate and think you can settle it.”
I turn and find two women standing beside me, both striking without trying too hard. One dark-haired, green eyes, elegant coat. The other blond, softer smile, posture relaxed like she’s comfortable anywhere she lands.
“Settle what?” I ask.
The blond tilts her head. “Whether you’re actually Grizz McAvoy or just someone who looks exactly like him.”
I smile despite myself. “Depends. What’s the prize if I am?”
The brunette laughs. “Confidence points. We figured no one would fake that posture.”
“Fair,” I say. “And yes. It’s me.”
They exchange a look—not starstruck, just impressed, which tells me they’re used to being around men who matter.
“I knew it,” the brunette says. “You’re taller in person.”
“You haven’t even seen me stand yet,” I say.
“I can tell when you’re sitting. The width of your shoulders gives it away.”
They introduce themselves. I catch their names, repeat them back, making a point of actually listening. We talk about the team, about how the season’s shaping up, about how wild the city feels tonight. They’re smart—quick, curious, asking questions that aren’t straight from a press guide.
“So,” the blond says, resting her elbow lightly on the bar, “do you actually enjoy the attention, or is it just part of the job?”
I consider it. “Depends on the day.”
“Honest answer,” the brunette says approvingly. “Most guys dodge that.”
“I’m bad at dodging,” I say.
The blond laughs, closer now, her shoulder brushing my arm. “Is that why you’re sitting alone?”
I glance at my glass. “I’m waiting for a couple people.”
“Oh,” she says, not retreating. “Lucky them.”
“Very,” I say, and mean it.
The brunette studies me more closely now. “You don’t flirt like I expected.”
“Is that a complaint?” I ask.
“It’s an observation,” she says. “You’re friendly. But you’re…”
I shrug. “Maybe I’m conserving energy.”
“For the game?” the blond asks.
“For life,” I reply.
That earns another laugh. But I draw an invisible line I’m not crossing, a door I’m not opening. The flirting softens, becomes more conversational and less pointed.
“Well,” the brunette says after a moment, “it was nice proving we were right about you being…”
“Funny and witty?”
“Exactly,” she says. “Not just intimidating.”
I lift my glass slightly. “I’ll take that.”
They step away, but the blond hesitates, turning back. She reaches into her purse, pulls out a pen, scribbles something quickly on a napkin, and slides it across the bar toward me.
“Just in case,” she says, meeting my eyes.
The two women then disappear into the crowd. I take a sip as I look at the ten-digit number. I know how these scenarios have ended historically.
These days, though, I have zero interest in going down that path. I crumple the napkin up, tossing it down by my drink on the bar.