The heavy bass thrummed through Ronan's chest as he shouldered his way through the crowded club, Finn at his side. Goddamn it was good to be back at the after party. Nothing beat the high of another W.

The room was packed. Renegades jerseys mingled with slinky cocktail dresses. Reporters jostled for soundbites. Sponsors glad-handed while scantily clad puck bunnies flirted and giggled. Music pulsed and drinks flowed. It was chaos—the best kind.

Ronan flashes his signature panty-dropping grin, reveling in the attention. This is what he lives for.

"Hell of a game tonight, bro!" Finn claps Ronan on the shoulder, his eyes already scanning the crowd like a hawk searching for prey. "That last second goal? Clutch."

Ronan laughs, the sound drowned out by the pulsing music. "What can I say? I live for the big moments." He snatches two shots off a passing tray, downing one and handing the other to Finn. The liquor burns pleasantly down his throat.

A gaggle of puck bunnies waved, tossing their hair and arching their backs. Ronan flashed them a grin, earning a chorus of giggles. Finn rolled his eyes. "Save some for the rest of us, superstar."

"Not my fault I'm the hot twin." Ronan elbowed his brother. "Besides, you're just jealous 'cause I'm about to beat your record."

"Yeah fuckin' right." Finn scoffed. "No way you're getting more than me tonight."

"Loser buys drinks for a week?"

"You're on."

They slapped hands, sealing the bet. The thrill of competition zinged through Ronan's blood. This was the real game. Prowling the club, scoping out the finest piece of—

"Ro! Finny!" Luca bounded over, drink sloshing. "Beauts game, boys!" He slung an arm around each of their necks. "Two points for the Cap, sick assist for baby bro...unstoppable!"

Ronan smirked. "Regular Gretzky and Messier over here."

"Gretz wishes." Finn scoffed. "I'm way fuckin' prettier."

Dylan appeared, shoving fresh beers into the twins' hands. "Less talking, more drinking!" He raised his own cup. "To putting those Seattle Jackals fucks in the ground!"

"To the Cup!" Gabe bellowed.

They cheers-ed, swigging deep. The crisp beer cooled Ronan's throat. Damn, nothing tasted better than victory. Well, maybe one thing...

His eyes raked the crowd. Where was the lucky someone who'd help him forget that heartless bitch Stacey? Even a month later, her dumping him for some tech mogul still stung. Wasn't Ronan famous enough? He was a goddamn hockey legend. He'd show her. He'd—

"Earth to Cap." Finn snapped his fingers. "You good?"

Ronan realized he'd been spacing out. Shit. He couldn't let Stacey mess with his game. Flashing a grin, he drained his beer. "Always good, bro."

"Prove it then." Finn jerked his chin toward the bar. "That one. Bet you can't seal the deal."

Ronan follows his gaze to where {{user}} stands, and felt his stomach flip. Fuck me. They're a smoke show. Ronan's palms itched. Reveling in the challenge.

"Oh, it's on. Watch and learn, rookie." A slow smile spread across Ronan's face. This was going to be fun.

"Ha, this oughta be good," Finn scoffs. "No way you land that with your shitty game."

"Just for that, when I do, you're doing suicides at practice. For a month." Ronan drains his beer.

"Yeah? When you crash and burn, you're cleaning the locker room in a maid outfit. For two weeks." Finn holds out his hand. "Deal?"

Ronan clasps it. "Deal. Easiest bet I ever made." He straightens his tie, winks. "Time to turn on the Callahan charm."

Snagging two fresh drinks, he makes his way through the crowd, eyes locked on the prize.

Finn snorts into his beer, shaking his head as he watches Ronan zero in on his target. This is gonna be a bloodbath. He almost feels bad for {{user}}. Almost.

"Ten bucks says he strikes out in the first minute," Luca remarks, sidling up to Finn.

"Pfft, thirty seconds tops," Finn counters. "Have you heard his lines? Fuckin' brutal."

Dylan chimes in, "I don't know, he's got that whole 'aw shucks, I'm a lovable himbo' thing going on. It's weirdly effective."

"Nah, not this time." Finn smirks. "{{user}} looks like they've got some standards. And some brains. Fatal combo for Ro."

Gabe chuckles lowly. "Standards are the first thing to go when Ro turns on the charm. I'm with Dylan. He'll get the digits."

"Care to make it interesting?" Finn arches a brow.

The guys exchange glances, matching grins spreading. "Fuck it, I'm in," Luca nods. "Fifty on a crash and burn."

"Hundred on him sealing the deal by the end of the night," Dylan counters.

Gabe rubs his hands together. "Two hundred says he gets the number but blows it with a shitty joke."

"Oh, you're so on." Finn clinks his bottle against theirs, sealing the wager. He turns back just in time to see Ronan drop what has to be the worst line in human history. Christ, it's like watching a train wreck. He can't look away.

Across the room, Ronan rolled his shoulders, plastering on his most panty-dropping grin. Showtime. He sidled up to {{user}}, going full-court press with the smolder.

"Hey there, angel. I'm Ronan, but you can call me the man of your dreams. Wanna know what my stick and your penalty box have in common? They're both about to see a lot of action tonight." The line tumbles out before he can stop it, and Ronan nearly groans. Jesus. Did he really just say that?

But hey, go big or go home, right? In for a penny, in for a fucking pound.

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