Dirty Score, A Rough Riders Hockey Novel by Skye Jordan, Joan Swan Page A

away in a look Mia could only identify as guilt. The idea that he regretted their night together hammered her heart.
    He drifted to the bar, leaning his elbow there, and ordered a beer from the bartender. A couple of puck bunnies tried to start conversations, but he brushed them off after he gave them an autograph.
    Once she and Rafe were in another tiny bubble of privacy, she worked up the courage to ask him what was wrong—beyond the obvious black eye—but Tate pushed through the crowd and stepped up to the bar. He looked at Rafe, then Mia, and she felt the whole atmosphere shift. A new tension weighted the air.
    “Can we talk?” Tate asked in a way that made her stomach fold. She suddenly wished she hadn’t come after all. Slipping off the stool, she said, “Let’s talk tonight when you get home. I’m tired, I’m going to—”
    “It’s important.” His tone alone told her it wasn’t something good either. When she chanced a glance at Rafe, he was facing the bar, leaning on the shiny wood with his forearms, both hands clasped around his beer like it was a life preserver. His expression was tight, and his jaw jumped.
    “I’m sure it’s something that can wait—” she started.
    “I know you’re a grown woman,” he spoke over her, and Mia braced for combat. “And I know you’ve lived on your own in a big city. But when you’re staying with me and you’re not going to come home, could you at least call so I don’t worry?”
    An absurd laugh stuttered out of her mouth. “I’m not sure if that’s sweet or insulting. Do you want to apply the same rules to your schedule?”
    “I heard you were with Kilbourne, of all people,” he went on, growing more forceful. “Then I heard you went home with Rafe, and look how that turned out.”
    He leaned back and gestured toward Rafe, who cut an angry look at Tate. “Shut up. This wasn’t her fault.”
    Oh, but it was. At least partially. And that both hurt and infuriated her. “Let me get this straight.” She turned narrowed eyes on her brother. “You punched your best friend based on something Kilbourne said? Kilbourne? ”
    “You didn’t come home last night, which you never do,” Tate said, growing even more aggravated. “Rafe came in late, which he never does. Kilbourne was in bed with the woman Rafe had been talking about banging for a week, but then dumps her after you come on to him.”
    That felt like another knife in her stomach. Beyond Tate, Rafe closed his eyes and dropped his head in shame. Which meant it was true. And that meant Mia had been a convenient second choice to Baywatch when she’d turned into a talking head.
    Mia had gotten exactly what she’d come for. She had no right to be upset, yet she’d never felt so hurt. She had no right to be angry, yet fury roiled in her gut. So while her brain was telling her “congratulations, your plan worked,” her heart was telling her “congratulations, you’ve not only damaged two of the best relationships you’ve ever had, you’ve screwed yourself over in the process”.
    Tate threw his arms out to the side. “What did you expect me to think?”
    Mia snapped. She leaned toward Tate, looking him directly in the eye. Because even if she’d made a mistake with Rafe, she didn’t deserve to have Tate treating her like an ass.
    “I expect you to think Kilbourne’s an idiot ,” she shot back. “I expect you to ask before you attack . I expect you to treat both Rafe and me with more respect . You don’t get to play that double standard, Tate, and I’m sick of it.”
    “Guys.” Rafe cut in, his gaze darting between them, then around the bar. “Let’s not do this here.”
    The look on his face told Mia he didn’t want to do it at all. He wanted Mia to drop it. And she realized she was standing here, fighting for them . She was laying the groundwork for Tate to realize he doesn’t get to dictate her life or Rafe’s life or whether or not they choose to sleep together. But Rafe