"Everything alright here?" Radek asks, a thick Czech accent coating the words.
"Dalton Worthington," slimy politician guy says, extending his hand. Any hint of animosity disappears in a puff of smoke. "Just making sure your guy is on the up and up, given that Sawyer's had so much to drink."
"I'd trust Bishop with any woman in my life," Auston says. "Any day. All day. He's not laying a hand on her that she doesn't want."
"When she's had that much, consent—"
"She's my physiotherapist," I say, fed up with Dalton's bullshit. "She lays her hands on me. I don't lay them on her." 
Yet. 
The thought hits without me wanting it to, but I'm not an idiot. There's a strange concoction brewing between me and Sawyer. Could be friendship. Could be something else. 
"Wouldn't want our star player getting in trouble." Dalton holds up his hands, a friendly grin aimed at Auston and Radek. "No harm meant."
I scoff and turn to look at Radek. We've played together on the same line for the last three years, and I'm sure he can read the expression on my face the same way he read my tense posture two minutes ago.
"Have a good night, Mr. Worthington," Auston says.
Auston is Canadian, and this version of his Canadian-ness is my favorite. Polite with an edge of "don't fuck with us" solidarity. 
"I will. Same to you, boys," he says before turning on his heel and walking away.
"What the fuck was that about?" Auston asks.
I'm still bristling at the "boys" comment as though we're playing at being men as I watch him walk out of the bar. When I turn, Sawyer folds into me.
"You okay?" I murmur into the top of her head.
"I feel sick," she whispers back, and she's clinging to my suit jacket.
"I'm going to get her home," I say to Auston and Radek. "As for what that was, I don't fucking know." But I strongly suspect there's hi온라인카지노게임 between him and Sawyer. Or he wishes there was. His vibe was more possessive than protective. 
"Pissing off a politician within a week of getting here wasn't the plan," Auston says.
I don't tell him that it's not the first time we've run into each other, and that my agenda and Dalton's might have just vastly diverged. Until tonight, I hadn't quite decided. But fuck that guy. I'll stay with the Bellerive Bullets just to spite him.
"I'll see you at practice tomorrow," I say, taking Sawyer's hand and leading her through the crowd. With my other hand, I text the driving service the organization assigned to me. Every time, it seems to be a different person picking me up.
"If you're going to be sick, tell me," I say.
"Okay," she says, her voice dull and numb.
In the car, I bundle her into the backseat and slide in beside her. We've barely left the bar when she taps the driver to pull over. She opens the door, and as she heaves, I grab a fistful of her hair, keeping it from sliding in front of her face.
She eases back into the seat and closes the door. Her eyes flutter shut, and I make a decision, giving the driver the new address.
At my apartment, I lift her out of the backseat, and I carry her inside. The doorman eyes me, but he doesn't say anything while he helps me get the elevator. On the way up, Sawyer curls into me, an arm draped around my neck.
When we get to the apartment door, Sawyer says, "Hey, I know where I am. Put me down."
I slide her down my body and keep her steady with one arm while I punch in the code for the door with my other. She stumbles inside and then stops dead in the entrance.