Sure Bet (Out of Left Field #1)

3. Liam

Chapter 3

Liam

E scaping to a nearby pub and drowning my sorrows in solitude to avoid a contentious reunion with Brooke Elwood was not cowardly. It was good sense.

I massaged my shoulder with a wince. Fuck that asshole for paying more attention to their umbrella than the sidewalk. Didn’t they know I was making a hurried escape? Je-sus .

With the last box unloaded in the condo, I scurried off before Brooke got home from work. Big fan of punting my problems down the field, and maybe I’d find the courage to face the heat of her disdain tomorrow. I had enough shit to deal with. I didn’t need her stuck-up attitude reminding me of all the ways I could be better while harping about all the ways I’d been terrible.

She probably had an entire catalog of complaints. Time-stamped.

But shouldn’t kids grow up, grow out of hate crushes, and learn to get acknowledgment from others in healthier, less problematic ways?

Or, in my case, flee to pubs to avoid uncomfortable memories and old conversations haunting them like ghosts.

Memories like my feigned nonchalance at fifteen despite a pounding heart while inside my grandmother’s closet with Brooke. ‘They’ll expect us to do something in here.’

‘We are doing something. Standing. Breathing. Existing.’

Leave it to Brooke Elwood to take the technical high road in a game of seven minutes in heaven.

‘Kissing. We’re supposed to be kissing.’ I preferred a more direct route, but Brooke made it clear she’d rather I get lost.

‘You’re an asshole who thinks he’s everything in this world, Liam, but you’re not.’

Goddamn. Brooke’s disdain had been brutal at times. And I was the dumb fuck who allowed taunts to linger like they still mattered.

“Can I buy you another?” a sweet voice chimed behind me. Whirling around, I found myself face to face with a gorgeous blonde, her smile radiant beneath the warm glow of the lights. A sleek ponytail pulled her hair back and showcased her flawless features.

Definitely my type.

“Thanks for the offer, but I’m waiting for a friend.” Easier to swallow a lie than revisit mistakes that would leave me just as lonely in the morning. I was already grappling with enough self-esteem issues. Accepting the drink at this point would classify as self-harm.

“She’s cute.” The bartender smirked, slicing limes a few feet away. The tangy scent wafted over, a welcomed distraction from the stale air. “You’ve been here for what? Two hours? Alone. You’re not meeting anyone.” He nodded toward her as she rejoined her friends at a table in the corner. “You running or hiding?”

My fingers tightened around the highball glass, and I toasted the bartender. “Guilty, and a bit of both.”

I finished the last of the amber liquid, relishing the familiar burn as it worked its way down my throat and warmed my insides. I hadn’t drunk in excess since college.

“Life, huh? Well, good luck with it.” He moved a few feet down, serving a couple that wandered over.

The guy didn’t appear much older than me. Thick-framed glasses reflected the light from above, but I bet those eyes had seen some shit. Maybe shit worse than my shit. Maybe some perspective would do my shit some good.

“How long have you been bartending?” And how pathetic am I on a scale of one to ten compared to your typical patrons?

He glanced up, staring into the distance. “I bought the place six months ago.”

Leaning on the bar, I lowered my voice like we were sharing secrets. “Shit, you’re the owner? You’re winning in life. I used to win once.” I slid my empty glass toward him for a refill. He eyed it, then me. “I’m not even super drunk, I swear!”

The guy took pity on me and poured another whisky.

“I haven’t won in a long time.” I tried to string my words together coherently. “An all-star athlete in high school with a baseball scholarship sending me off to college. A pit stop on my inevitable career path to the MLB. Jesus, I was golden .” I didn’t wait for his response, bulldozing ahead despite the fact he slowly inched away. “But elbows, huh? Turns out you need them to pitch.”

I saluted him with my drink and took another swig.

R.I.P. career. Nothing like training your whole life for no reason.

I drummed impatiently on the bar as I caught my reflection in the mirror-lined wall. Thick chestnut locks cascaded in impeccable waves—nay, a hair disheveled despite antsy fingers. Those blue eyes staring back? Clear as crystal.

I rubbed my face, laughing and shaking my head. Of course. Of course, I looked unblemished—a cosmic joke.

I gestured to my face. “I was supposed to be a winner. This smile, combined with being a barrel of good times? Unstoppable.” I sighed, propping my chin on my fist in a concerted effort to look sober.

The bartender said nothing to that, pouring a pint from the tap and sliding it across the bar to a server.

“Maybe I should have gone home with the blonde.” I considered that before shaking my head. “Nope. I’m never hitting on anyone ever again, and that’s not just drunk lies. That’s a proclamation!”

I realized my knee was bouncing when the man two stools over glared at me. Goddamn. I just needed a friend to talk to, but it wouldn’t be that sour-faced asshole.

My eyes zeroed in on the bartender, and I flagged him over again.

He finished with a customer and headed my way. “Yeah? You need something else?”

I did. Direction, a sense of purpose, and new goalposts in life when mine had crumbled.

I needed someone to understand, even if it was a fake friend for the night. “It’s not that I don’t like people. I do. Not all people like me, though.”

The bartender sighed heavily and wiped his hands on the towel slung over his shoulder. “You need someone to talk to?”

“I do. My best friend has his own shit going on in life, and I’m here avoiding the woman living in my house because she doesn’t just dislike me; she hates me. Like, would burn me alive if she could.”

The bartender shrugged. “Sometimes that heat sparks flames of another kind.”

“Oh boy, no, not with her.” I pursed my lips. “I mean, maybe one time in a moment of weakness when we were kids, but kids grow up, right?”

The bartender reached for my glass—no refills this time. “Kids grow up. Maybe all it takes is a spark to reignite that flame. Don’t write yourself off so fast. That kind of passion and fire? Might be worth it.”

This guy clearly did not know Brooke Elwood.

“I doubt it’s worth it.” The world around me swirled into a dizzying blur, a precious dance of balance as I gripped the stool and willed the dimly lit pub to stay still.

“It could be.” This guy and his bold declarations.

It could be. Please.

“You speak from first-hand experience?” I pointed a warning finger. “Don’t bullshit me, and none of that, ‘My grandparents were married forever and died two days apart.’ That shit isn’t real either.”

He ran a hand over the back of his neck, squeezing. “I’ve got a girl. She’s pretty great.”

Another shrug told me all I needed to know.

“Right. Let me guess. She’s great and there’s nothing wrong, no reason to break up. You’ll get married, buy your house, have your babies, and wake up one day wondering where the fuck your life went. If you’re a better man than my father, you’ll stick around to raise those babies.” The bitter tone slipped easily from my lips. “We have one life. One miserable, puny life filled with miserable and puny shit. Yet we treat it like settling is doing others a favor, rather than admit it’s holding everyone involved hostage.”

“You think that’s how it goes? Settling?” He chewed on the inside of his cheek. “Isn’t that just what happens in relationships? You get comfortable.”

I crossed my arms and leaned back. “Yeah? And yet she’s still great? Light you on fire kind of great? Makes all the other shit worth it kind of great? Will love you even when you’re a broken failure kind of great?”

I rose from my stool, unsteady and disoriented but certain, so goddamn certain.

“It could be that kind of fire is possible, and it could be that fire is worth it. You’re still left with a pile of ash when it burns out.”

I stumbled backward, catching the edge of the bar with one hand and my stool with the other before I fell on my ass. The scuff of the barstool dragging across the floor cut through the air, and eyes turned to me.

Time to crawl home.

The bartender whistled between his teeth and signaled the server from earlier. “Cass? Can you put this guy into a cab, please?”

“Feet are my ride.” I shot a lopsided grin and saluted him with two fingers—I think. It could have been more.

Cass grabbed me by the elbow, helping me stay steady on my feet. “Good grief, he’s drunk. Christ, Sam. You just got the place, and you’re going to get it shut down already.”

A heavy sigh from my confidant. “I thought he could handle his liquor better.”

I appreciated my best friend for the night, but he was an idiot to think I could handle anything. At all. Ever.

I moved to Seattle with every intention of picking myself up and starting over. Less than twenty-four hours in the city, and I was still tripping over my own feet.