Heartless Player by R.C. Stephens
One
Rebel
Eight Weeks Later
It’s another busy night at the Frog and Firken, a local bar next to Westfall College. My hands burn from being immersed in soapy water an entire night, but the dishes keep piling up and I’m the dishwasher. I hate dealing with people so much that this secluded job matched my tendencies to live under the radar. I have to work a lot of hours in order to help pay the part of my tuition that I couldn’t get subsidized, plus help my sister Blossom pay expenses on the house we live in that used to be my parents’.
“You need to ask Fred to put you on bar,” my best and oldest friend Holland says, walking up to the sink. I wear gloves when I wash the dishes, but the problem is, as the night wears on, the bubbles grow and the sink clogs, which means I get water in the gloves, making them utterly useless.
“You know how I feel about dealing with people,” I say.
“You need to get over that. Your skin is screaming red,” she says with exasperation, looking at my arms.
“I’m fine,” I assure her.
Holland doesn’t have much time to talk because she’s waiting tables. She makes double the money I do in a night. It sucks, it really does, but I’m just not willing to put myself out there.
With the pile of clean plates growing beside the sink, I turn the water off and dry them. Then I carry them over to the serving station.
“Let me help you there, baby girl,” Matt, the cook, grins as he moves to take the plates out of my hands.
“I’m not your baby girl and I’m just fine to deliver the plates on my own. Thank you very much.” I sidestep him, careful not to drop the heavy load of dishes. The last thing I need is to drop a bunch of them and have Mr. Fred Stanfeld deduct it from my next paycheck.
Matt pushes out his lower lip. “You never let me help you. I’m just trying to be a gentleman.”
Holland whizzes past. “You’re just trying to get in her pants. When will you realize it will never happen?”
I laugh.
Matt’s brows furrow when he looks at Holland and then he stares back at me. “Is that true?”
“We’ve been here before and I’ve made it very clear to you that I am not interested in dating in general,” I say to Matt to soften the blow.
“Is it because of…” His gaze drops to my leg where I have a prosthesis.
His words could faze me, but they don’t. People have been singling me out ever since my accident.
“No, Matt.” I sidestep him again because the plates are getting super heavy and place them on the counter.
I head back to my washing station and begin with the glasses. It’s a Saturday night, which is one of the busiest nights of the week. I place my knock-off ear pods in my ears and play some music to drown out my thoughts.
By the time I clean my last plate for the night, my hands are raw and my legs are killing me. It’s hard standing in the same place for eight hours straight.
I remove my gloves and wash my hands.
“Hey, you. Do you want to come sit and have a beer and a bite to eat with me?” Holland asks.
“I should really get home,” I say. “Blossom will worry if I’m late.”
“Blossom is probably tucked away in bed with that hunky boyfriend of hers,” Holland says, knocking me in the shoulder.
“You’re probably right. But Preston isn’t her boyfriend yet,” I say.
“Come.” Holland takes me by the hand and pulls me out to the front of the bar. “I’m freaking starving and could use the company.” She moves two stools together and plops herself down. She looks as exhausted as I feel.
“You want to sit at the bar?” I raise my brows and look at her like she just suggested we jump off the Empire State Building.
“Not tonight, Rebel. I’m just so tired.” Her hands slide over the bar and she places her head down. “I just want food, beer, and sleep. Even though I have to force myself to study.”
“Did you want that ride, Rebel?” Matt asks.
“No, thank you, Matt. You have yourself a good night,” I say to him.
He nods and leaves.
Holland lifts her head. “You going to sit in this century?”
“Fine.” I take the seat beside her.
The bartender, Darren, comes up to us. “We already had last call, but what can I get you ladies?” Darren is smoking-hot with large biceps and green eyes. He works as a personal trainer at the local gym by day and the bar by night. He must be at least thirty years old.
“I’ll take a Bud Light on draft,” Holland says and looks my way.
“A Coke for me,” I say, since I’m not much of a drinker. “I’ll also have the house cheeseburger and curly fries.”
“Wow. Someone is splurging tonight,” Holland says. Then she looks at Darren. “I’ll have the same.”
“I didn’t have a chance to eat. I was doing homework for most of the day and I lost track of time, then I had to come into work. My stomach feels like it’s going to implode on me,” I explain, since I rarely spend money on eating out.
“I’m so drained too. I’m having a really hard time keeping up this year,” she says. Holland is premed. She has to keep an insanely high GPA if she wants to make it into med school.
Suddenly, a throng of guys shuffles in. They are boisterous and loud and in a really good mood. One look at them and I know they’re Westfall’s beloved hockey team. They must have won a game tonight. They come in here often to celebrate their wins and mourn their losses, although they definitely win more often than not.
“Bar’s closed,” Darren shouts.
“That’s okay, man. We’re here for grub, even though a cold beer would be nice,” a guy named Cole says. He’s one of our best players. I’ve never seen them play, but all the guys on the team are hot shit around here. They have the ladies falling at their feet and the NHL scouting them out.
“Sure, no problem. Take a seat,” Darren says. He drops his emerald eyes on Holland and me. “Those guys can eat a shit ton, and we can’t say no to business.”
Holland pouts beside me. “I can’t feel my feet.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll get their order and serve them,” he says.
“Thanks,” Holland says, then turns to me. “He is everything. I swear I want to marry him,” she whispers.
I laugh.
Cole comes up to the bar and leans forward, turning his gaze and watching me like I’m a puzzle he’s trying to solve or something. It makes me feel antsy and itchy. The stench of beer mixed with bad breath causes me to lean away from him. “Hey, do I know you from somewhere?”
I freeze totally, turning into the ice queen I’ve been accused of being so many times.
“Uh, hello?” He waves his hand in my face like he’s trying to gauge if I can see him, or maybe he thinks I don’t speak English.
“Do you mind?” Holland snaps at him.
I remain frozen. I must have entered some alternate universe, because there is no way Cole freaking Davis just spoke to me.
He straightens up. “You chicks aren’t too friendly. Come on, I’m just trying to be nice,” he says.
“We aren’t into your kind of nice,” Holland says.
Declan McAvoy comes up on the other side of us. He’s another one of the golden boys on our hockey team. The whole campus knows who he, Cole, and Wolfe are. Not that I would admit it to this guy. His head is clearly inflated enough.
“Feisty. Me likes,” Cole answers Holland, waggling his brows.
“We. Aren’t. Interested.” Holland accentuates each word, waving her hand in his face like he did me. Holland is beautiful, with long chocolate-brown hair, tanned skin, and big, round brown eyes. If Jessica Alba had a daughter our age, Holland would be it.
I take the opportunity to stand and take my Coke with me, but as I do, Cole’s eyes roam over my body. I look like complete crap with my blonde hair in a messy bun. I’m wearing a simple baby T and jogging pants, but it’s not like I need to dress up to work in a kitchen washing dishes all night.
“Babe, you don’t need to leave on my account,” he says. “I ain’t the big bad wolf.”
“Did someone say my name?” Wolfe asks, sauntering his way over to the bar—well, as much as anyone can saunter on a pair of crutches. My cheeks flush at the sight of him and my breath hitches. That body and those eyes should be illegal. He’s got a head of light brown hockey hair that peeks out from under his cap. His bangs fall forward onto his face, hiding the most translucent blue eyes I’ve ever seen.
“You bugging these pretty ladies, Cole?” Wolfe asks.
What kind of name is Wolfe anyway? Just as I think the thought, I remind myself that my name is Rebel. The product of two hippy parents who were too high to give their kid a normal name. Apparently, Mama expected me to be a big rebel like her, so she thought the name would be fitting. I couldn’t be more opposite than my namesake.
“No, man,” Cole says, clapping Wolfe on the back.
“Shit,” Cole says, and he looks at my leg. “That must totally suck. I can’t imagine not having a leg. What does that feel like?”
Cole’s uninhibited question causes a flush to crawl up my neck. It’s not that I’m not used to the side glances and weird questions. I’ve just never experienced them from a guy as hot as Cole or Wolfe before. Every girl on campus wants to hook up with them. In my past life, I probably would have wanted to also, but my accident changed everything for me. Now I like to keep my head low.
“Dammit, Cole, put a lid on it.” Wolfe smacks him in the chest.
“Come on, Wolfe, don’t tell me you aren’t the least bit curious. I mean, when your leg snapped the way it did, didn’t you think you may lose it?” Cole asks with as much sincerity as possible for a person who is that trashed.
“You fucking idiot. Go get out of here. I’ll get the damn beer.” Wolfe shoves Cole away from the bar with one hand. Cole stumbles as he walks away. He probably doesn’t even remember asking me the damn question, but I can’t forget it. My self-esteem is crap low as it is, and that just made it dip even more.
“Sorry about my friend. He can be an ass most of the time, but he really isn’t a bad guy,” Wolfe says, staring between me and Holland.
“It’s fine,” I brush him off.
“It’s not fine. He was rude, and no one asks shit like that,” Holland says. She’s right, and I need to do a better job defending myself, but I’m just not there yet. It’s only been three years since I became an amputee and I still have things to work through.
“No, I totally agree,” Wolfe says. “It was insensitive and dickish, and I sincerely apologize for my friend.”
Darren comes out to the bar and Wolfe asks him for five beers. Darren says he’ll bring them right over.
“Cheers.” Wolfe nods to me and then his gaze drops to my leg, and I wish I were a candle so I could just melt away. Only, his reaction isn’t overly dramatic. In fact, his facial expression remains the same, like he hasn’t seen anything at all that stood out to him as different.
After he walks away, I deflate on the bar. “I think that was the most embarrassing moment of my life.”
“No, it wasn’t,” Holland counters. “The time you peed yourself in senior kindergarten was much worse.”
“Holland,” I snap, then eye Darren.
“Don’t worry, Rebel. I’ll tell you the most embarrassing thing that’s happened to me,” he says.
“You don’t have to do that. No point in drowning in shame with me.” I sigh.
Darren laughs. “When I was twelve, I asked a girl to the movies. She said yes. I was so nervous I tried to put my arm around her shoulder and instead I knocked a huge cup of cola all over her lap. Her clothes got soaked and we had to leave the movie theater,” he says with a nod, like he’s sure he one upped me.
“That really isn’t all that embarrassing,” I counter.
“Okay, then when I was thirteen, I went to sleepover camp. Some of my buddies woke up in the middle of the night and put my hand in a cold cup of water. I ended up pissing myself,” he says.
“Okay, that one sucks pretty bad,” Holland says.
Darren watches me, waiting for my verdict. I tilt my head from side to side. “Still not that bad. My leg is my Achilles heel and that guy just stomped all over my ego.”
“Screw him,” Holland cheers.
“You don’t need guys like that,” Darren says. “You need someone who sees what you are on the inside. Sure, the outside matters too for initial attraction, but you’re beautiful, Rebel. The whole package. You just don’t need a douchebag like them,” he says.
“That was so sweet, Darren,” Holland says, batting her lashes.
“And I meant it in a big brother kind of way,” Darren clarifies, inching away from us.
“Burgers are up,” Colin, the assistant chef, says, placing our cheeseburgers on the window between the bar and the kitchen.
“Eat up, sunshine. I need to get home and study,” Holland says.
“Seriously? You’re going to study? It’s two o’clock in the morning,” I say, flabbergasted.
“You know me,” Holland says. “Besides, I need to use all the energy from the cheeseburger I’m about to eat. No point in wasting it.”
Yeah, I know Holland. She’s all work and little play. I bite into my burger and try to push the golden boys out of my head. But how can I? When they see me, they don’t see a whole person. A part of me is missing. Hell, I still wake up some nights thinking my leg is there. I know it shouldn’t matter. That it shouldn’t define who or what I am, but it does, and I hate it.