The strobing lights let me see her hand slide down to mine, but I step away before she can link our fingers. Tonight at least, I’m not this kind of guy, the one who takes an opening from a beautiful, willing woman and runs with it. Been there, done that. The truth is, I’m not in the mood to party in a club or in my hotel bed. Not after tonight’s win which came with a loss.

I head to the bar, deciding one more drink should be enough to cloud over my head enough that I fall asleep not dreaming of throwing picks or my benched guys.

“Tito’s on the rocks, please.” It’s so loud I have to repeat my order to the woman bartending, but that’s not her fault. She turns, leaving number 27—Todd’s number—facing me.

I drum my fingers against the dark, shiny wood, trying to avoid lifting my head because that will require me to smile, to engage, when all of this feels so damn meaningless. I lift my drink when it’s placed in front of me but the glass doesn’t make it all the way to my mouth when I see what’s written on the napkin.

I squint and focus to get a more careful read because I can’t see what I think I see. No way. I just said this all felt meaningless. Now, I’m looking at two words with a shit ton of meaning.

Rebels Only.

My immediate reaction is to look up and scan the area as intensely as I do when I’m looking for a break in the defense, but instead, I wonder if someone slipped something into one of my earlier drinks.

“All good?”

Before I flick my eyes up, I brace myself in case I hallucinate Parker on the other side of the bar. But the only one I find is a redheaded bartender who most certainly isn’t Parker.

I clutch the napkin like someone might steal it as I twist and turn. But god help me, it’s so packed in here it’s like searching for a needle in a haystack considering everyone is in team merch or a jersey.

When I turn the napkin over, my eyes bulge.

555-459-3137

xx--P

I frantically pull my phone from my back pocket. My hands shake more than they ever have from pregame nerves.

Where are you?

I push send while keeping my head on a swivel. But everyone who finds me is no one I’m looking for.

Captain America!

Rhodes of the Rebels!

Fitzy!

For fuck’s sake.

With a bit of the shakes, I bring the short glass to my lips, downing half of it in one gulp.