Offside Bride (Toronto Titans #2)

2. Sawyer

2

SAWYER

Six days earlier

O wen didn’t say why he wants to meet me at the Crowned Loon, but I could go for a cold beer so I agreed. It doesn’t take much to get me out of the house these days.

I’m a simple guy. As our team captain, Owen will probably lecture me about drinking so close to the beginning of the season. That’s part of his job, I guess. Last season, he’d get on my case from time to time. He’d nag at me for going out after games, the drinking, the fights…the women.

But if he’s going to be so uptight about boozing, he shouldn’t invite me to a bar—because we all know The Crowned Loon isn’t where you go for good food. Except maybe the wings. I’m definitely ordering the wings.

He mentioned something about having the afternoon free while his wife Emily helps her friend with apartment hunting. I know of only one single, apartment-dwelling friend of Emily’s and that’s Maggie. The pint-sized firecracker.

Maggie. The kickass queen of sass who had me wrapped around her pretty little finger at Owen’s wedding.

Maggie. The only woman to ever live rent-free in my head.

Oh the irony, considering she’s apartment hunting today.

That woman. That maddening, intoxicating, sultry goddess of my dreams. The very thought of her haunts me—and it kills me that I can’t have her. She’s my Roman Empire.

Keeping my distance has proven to be a challenge, to say the least. It means avoiding gatherings where I know she’ll be. I’ve turned down more than a few invitations this summer, simply because the sight of Maggie in a strappy sundress messes with my head. At least that’s what I imagine she wears to Owen’s barbecues. He recently bought a new home in the posh Bridle Path neighborhood, and suddenly he’s become Mister Garden Party.

Yes, the house is enormous, but not big enough for both me and Maggie. She is too much. She is larger than life. She is everywhere all at once.

And surprisingly, she’s also here today at The Crowned Loon.

Just my luck.

My eyes adjust to the dim lighting, scanning the crowd for Owen. And she’s there—tucked in a booth at the far end of the bar, chatting excitedly with Emily, waving her hands around as she speaks. Emily says something and she laughs. It’s a grand, theatrical laugh, and it’s so Maggie—her wide grin on full display as she throws her head back. Those perfectly straight teeth, almost unreal with how white they are, especially contrasting with her ruby red lipstick. Those pouty lips, so dangerous and wicked. The phantom memory of how it felt to kiss them assaults my thoughts. Even now, from across the bar, I can feel them…and smell her sweet perfume that’s unique to her.

I’m convinced she wears liquid pheromones all over her skin. How else can I explain how drawn to her I am?

I gotta get out of here.

Suddenly my clothes feel abnormally itchy. Is it hot in here? The last of the summer humidity has waned off as we go into September, but it’s verifiably balmy in The Crowned Loon today. Too many bodies. Mostly guys. The Rugby World Cup is on almost all the screens, and it’s rowdier in here than usual. And that’s saying a lot for The Crowned Loon.

I’m about to dip outside and text Owen to meet me at the corner when I see Maggie scooting out of the booth. Heading to the restrooms, I guess. She’s halfway across the bar when I notice a couple guys following her. It’s not just coincidence. They definitely have their eyes on her, making a beeline her way.

Dammit, why didn’t Emily go with her? Don’t girls like to go to the bathroom together?

Before I know what I’m doing, I find myself moving in on the guys that are following Maggie. One of them falls behind a few steps (the wingman, probably) while the other one, a bulky guy with a buzz cut, is stalking toward Maggie. They’re both piss-drunk and can barely walk a straight line.

The bar is packed, filled with riotous rugby fans—most of them filled with too much beer, and I have to shove through crowded tables and chairs.

I tell myself I’m just going to observe. I’m not gonna get involved…unless Maggie really needs me. Which she doesn’t. She most definitely doesn’t. She’s made that clear from day one. And even if she did, I’m the last person she’d want to come riding in on a white horse.

But as soon as I see Buzz Cut Guy reach out his hand toward Maggie’s perfectly fit butt, the already dim bar turns to dust, and I am a bull seeing red, locked on my target. She’s wearing a tight pair of jeans on that perfectly fit butt, and I don’t know if the dude is aiming to squeeze it or pinch it, but I go from zero to sixty in one-point-five seconds, shoving him to the floor just as his hand cops a feel.

In what I can only describe as seismic activity of epic proportions, Maggie whips around, her dark, dark crop of hair flying back over her shoulder. There’s a crack in the universe with her sudden movement, and the stale air in the bar shocks cold, like the ominous minutes before a storm.

This is what I experience in the half a second after I shove Buzz Cut Guy out of the way, and since I’m left standing in his place, it’s my face where Maggie’s angry fist lands. Right in the jaw.

Her expression goes from feral rage, to surprise, to utter disgust.

I’m quick to point at the guy on the floor. “It was him!”

I’m hoping my face is saying, “I’m not the guy who squeezed your butt. I’m the guy who saved you. I’m the hero in this scenario.”

Maggie doesn’t seem to care. In fact, I’m beginning to think she’d infinitely prefer Buzz Cut Guy over me. I don’t blame her, really. But at least when I had my hands all over her at Owen’s wedding, I asked permission first. That has to count for something, right?

My mouth is dry. If I had a brain cell working right now to say something—anything—to her, the big lump in my throat wouldn’t allow it anyway. I’m just standing here like a big, useless slab of flesh. Nothing but a heavy, dumb animal with my feet cemented to the floor.

It barely registers when her beautiful face shifts, eyes widening, and she yells, “Watch out!”

Being the dumb animal that I am, I simply stare at her as if to say “Huh?”

Then a chair crashes against my back.

I crumble to the floor, only slightly injured. I take worse hits on the ice. But as I raise my eyes, I see none other than Buzz Cut Guy standing over me. There’s drool on his chin, and he’s got a ragey look on his face. He’s coming for more now that I’m down. But he’s drunk, and I guarantee I outweigh him in the muscle department.

He wants to brawl? I’m ready.

But before I get off the beer-soaked floor, Maggie roars. It’s a cute, feminine growly roar that turns into a war cry of sorts. All I know is I wouldn’t want to be on the other side of it, especially as her foot makes swift and forceful contact with the guy’s groin.

He stumbles back, crashes into the group of guys behind him, and topples their table over with his weight. All three men at the table are huge. Viking huge. Pints of beer, onion rings, and loaded potato skins slide onto the floor—along with Buzz Cut Guy.

The Vikings leap to their feet, trying to avoid the food and beer mess, and also because they’re mad as hell. I hear them shout profanities at Buzz Cut Guy as one of them grabs him by the shirt and hauls him up. Meanwhile, his wingman stumbles over to stand up for his friend. He takes a swing at one of the guys and misses, of course. He’s three sheets to the wind and can hardly stand up straight, so I don’t know why he thought joining the fight would be a good idea. They’re outnumbered three to two. Wingman gets tossed aside but stupidly comes back for more, swinging haphazardly. One of the angry Vikings (a red-haired man with a long beard) picks up Wingman under his armpits as if he didn’t weigh more than a toddler—and outright throws him. Throws him.

Another guy, who happens to be passing by, gets caught in the crossfire. Wingman crashes into him so he, of course, gets upset and grabs the nearest thing he can reach—an empty bottle—and tosses it at the table of Vikings.

This turns into a face-off with three groups of guys: the original idiots, the Vikings, and the friends of bottle-throwing guy. Let’s call the third group ‘collateral damage’ since they have no chance of making it out of here with their noses intact.

I wish I were making this up, but it gets worse. Buzz Cut Guy turns and points to Maggie and me and screams, “Get ’em!”

Next to me, Maggie says, “Oh crap.”

We take one look at each other, and for a split second, I swear there’s this spark of telepathy.

“Run!” she seems to say.

So I take her hand, turn, and go. But she’s strong for a small thing. She tugs back, practically yanking my arm out of its socket.

“No, Beavis. This way.”

Beavis?

I follow her lead, even though her way is blocked by more bar patrons. Half of them are shouting at the rugby game, and the other half are hollering at the fight going on. I don’t turn around to see how that’s going because I’m too damn preoccupied with Maggie holding my hand. I know. I’m pathetic. Go ahead and call it.

As we weave through the crowd, a beer bottle flies past my ear with a swish and narrowly misses Maggie’s head immediately after. It wasn’t quite empty, and now the side of my face smells like hops. In my peripheral vision, I see guys getting into it, tables and chairs overturning, and food flinging in all directions. A French fry lands in my hair. Utter mayhem is breaking out. People are throwing chairs. I’m pretty sure I see a prosthetic leg fly across the room.

“Get down!” I cry, covering Maggie’s body with mine as I take us down to the floor. It really is sticky down here. “This way.”

We army crawl toward the bar, where I hope we can hide for a spell. But the bartender, a take-no-prisoners Gen X guy with salt and pepper hair and ink all the way up his neck, already put up a barrier gate.

He shuts off the game, clicks around on his control tablet, and grumbles something like, “It’s showtime.” Then he leaps over the bar just as the drum intro to “We’re Not Gonna Take It” by Twisted Sister blasts over the surround sound speakers.

Maggie chirps next to me, “What in the Spotify?”

The bartender thrashes through the crowd, whooping a rebel yell as he charges, like he’s frickin’ Mel Gibson in Braveheart .

“Bro’s got some pent-up anger,” I say and slowly rise to peek around the room looking for Owen and Emily.

It’s a complete free-for-all by now. The brawl is spread out across the whole place. Everybody’s kung fu fighting. One guy gets hit by a table and just bounces back and punches another guy randomly. It’s like a scene out of Shanghai Noon. I don’t see any of the other staff. They must have dipped out.

Through the melee, I find Owen and Emily across the room, ducking for cover under the booth table. Aaaand they’re making out.

“Seriously?”

Maggie pops up beside me to see what’s going on. She pulls a face and scoffs, “Sickos.”

Knowing Maggie’s been crashing at Owen and Emily’s house lately, I say, “Is this normal for them?”

“You have no idea.”

How I’d love to find an unoccupied booth and slide under the table with Maggie. It seems a much more desirable option than my current state, covered in beer and a questionable sauce. Not to mention trying to get away from Buzz Cut and the Vikings. If I were a musician, I’d think that was a great name for a band. But only if they weren’t trying to kill me, presently.

As my luck would have it, I turn my head just in time to see Buzz Cut Guy across the room. We make eye contact. His face goes bright red.

“There they are!” he shouts.

Dang it. Why didn’t I stay on the sticky floor?

“We gotta get outta here,” I say to Maggie, taking her hand. “My bike’s out front.”

She tries to pull away. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

“You wanna take your chances with Buzz Cut Guy?”

“Buzz Cut Guy? You have a name for him already?”

“So? You called me Beavis. What was that about?”

“Butthead was taken,” she says with an icy glower.

“Look. We’re closer to the front door than those guys, but they’ll catch up with us any minute.”

She looks over her shoulder. Buzz Cut Guy is skirting the edge of the room to find a clearer path to us. He has murder in his eyes.

“You have a choice to make, Magpie. And I think we both know the right choice is to come with me.”

She hesitates, looking back at me and over her shoulder again. “What about Emily and Owen?”

“I think they’ll be okay,” I say.

“My purse. I left it in the booth.”

“I’ll text them to bring it to us later. We have to go. Now.”

She reluctantly nods, and I tuck her under my arm as we hunch over and barrel through the crowd. If anything comes flying at us, I’ll be the first one covered in wet, gooey substances or broken glass. I find an opening in the chaos and head toward the light.

As we reach the front door, the song ends followed immediately by “The Boys are Back in Town.”

We’re out on the sidewalk before Maggie says, “What’s with the bar brawl music?”

I laugh, even though moving my face cracks the dried stickiness on my skin. “There’s a playlist for everything,” I say.

My Harley is parked on the street, not far from the bar. I hand the helmet to Maggie. She crosses her arms.

“You need to wear this,” I say, urgently extending it out to her. I only have one helmet with me, but I won’t allow her to go without.

“I don’t want to get on your harlot mobile,” she says defiantly.

“I’m not going to fight with you about this right now.”

“Then don’t. Just go.”

I grit my teeth. “Woman, take the helmet and get on my bike.”

“No.”

Sirens wail in the distance, getting closer by the sound of it.

I plead with her. Softer this time. “I’m not leaving you behind, Magpie.”

She scoffs at my nickname for her. I love it. And I love how it aggravates her.

Her feet are rooted to the sidewalk. She’s not moving. Why is she so stubborn? My last nerve is about to break. The sirens are getting louder. A couple of guys burst out the front door and run in the other direction. Not the same guys that want to kill us, at least. But they’ll be on us any second, now.

“Why?” I growl. “Why won’t you come with me?”

She screams back at me. “Why do you think?”

There’s more than anger in her voice. There’s pain. I know I put it there. I hate myself for it. But it’s better this way.

That look in her eyes. It tugs at my chest, flooding me with bitter memories. How beautiful I thought she was the first time I saw her. How we flirted but fought off the intense attraction for months. How gorgeous she was in that bridesmaid dress. How I couldn’t control my desire for her any longer, and said, “Screw it.”

I blame the twelve-year-old Scotch for that lapse in judgment. But she was just as into me, and I couldn’t resist that kind of temptation any longer. In our inflamed rush, we snuck into a quiet room where the extra tables and chairs were stored, and I finally got a taste of her. It wasn’t very romantic.

It was, in fact, frenzied. Hot. But also beautiful. And then my heart cracked because I knew. I knew right then, that she’d be the end of me. I had to walk away before we took it too far.

If that means I have to be the jerk, so be it.

A sharp ache pricks at my chest as I say, “What do you want, Magpie? An apology? You want me to grovel? Well, I don’t say sorry, and I don’t grovel. I don’t have a white horse. I have a black Harley. So you better get on my frickin’ bike and come with me before the cops get here.”

Her chest heaves as she puts on that hard armor to cover the vulnerability I know is there and pointedly snarls, “I hate you.”

“That’s fine by me, love.” I shove the helmet in her hands and get on my bike, starting it up. It purrs to life. I glance sidelong at her with half a smirk as she plops the helmet on her head, scowling at me.

She’s adjusting the strap when Buzz Cut Guy blasts out of the bar with fury in his step and blood dripping from his brow. He completely bypasses Maggie and comes at me, winding up his fist like he’s in a Popeye cartoon. I can handle this guy. Just one punch, square in the nose, and he won’t be a problem anymore. But Maggie takes off the helmet, swings it by the straps, and whacks the guy from the side.

As he slumps down to the sidewalk, she says, “That’s for copping a feel, you creep.”

Then she settles the helmet back on her head and straddles the bike behind me. Maggie is a certifiable badass. I’ve never been so turned on by a woman in my life.

She wraps her arms around me, and we ride away from the scene, her hands clinging to my shirt–bringing on unbidden memories of our little tryst in the storeroom. I can’t have her, but this feeling will stay with me for a long, long time.