I trace the condensation on the side of my cup. “Something like that.”
Kieran’s head tilts, eyes gleaming with curiosity. “Who is he? Come on, don’t make me guess the whole roster.”
I open my mouth to brush it off, but realize at this point, it’s easier to just get this over and done with.
“Number twenty-two.”
He stills for half a heartbeat, then his grin splits wide. “No way.Parnell? Alternate captain, Elijah Parnell?”
My hand falls back into my lap as I nod.
“Holy shit. That’s wild. He’s a beast! One of the best forwards in the league right now. Jesus.” He shakes his head, laughing like this is the best coincidence of his life. “Man, you must have the best perks—season tickets, box seats, all that. I can’t believe you didn’t lead with that.”
The knot in my stomach pulls tighter.
“I don’t really go to games,” I say lightly, forcing a smile. It’s a lie, I go relatively frequently with the girls. “Not my thing.”
“Come on, you’ve got to be kidding. Front row seats? VIP? Locker room hangs?” He grins like we’re sharing some inside joke. “Hell, I’d kill to have a brother like that.”
The server drops the check onto the sticky surface of the table top. I reach for my bag, but he’s already sliding some cash across the table with a flourish. “Don’t worry about it, I’ve got this.”
“That’s not necessary—”
“Seriously. Let me.” He waves me off, easy and insistent.
“Okay.” I smile again. “Thank you.” I slip my phone out of my bag, bringing up the taxi app. But when we stand, he’s already at my side, steering me toward the edge of the row with a hand at my elbow.
“I’ll drive you.”
“That’s sweet, but I can grab a ride—”
“It’s late. Safer if I take you.”
He grins encouragingly at me as we weave through plastic tables and metal chairs toward the parking lot, the crowd thinning out around us as the trucks start shutting down for the night.
His car smells like leather and cedar, polished clean but with a faint edge of something chemical beneath it. The music is a low, classic rock pulsing under the hum of the tires. Streetlights flashthrough the windshield, carving him into quick frames of light and shadow.
At first, he talks hockey. Stats, trades, a story about getting on the ice for a beer-league game and scoring on a goalie twice his size. He tells it well, animated and grinning wide, and I laugh in the right places. For a moment, it almost feels like the start of something, and I think maybe I didn’t waste my time swiping right this week.
But then he glances over at me.
“So, seriously. You don’t go to games? Not even playoffs?”
I shake my head, keeping the lie alive. “Not really.”
He laughs, incredulous, shaking his head like he can’t believe it. “You’re killing me. If I had a brother like that, I’d be at every single one. Front row. Bragging rights for life.”
The words scrape. My fingers tighten around the strap of my bag, nails digging into the leather. I keep my eyes on the blur of city lights through the window.
“He brags enough for the both of us,” I murmur.
He chuckles, easy and unbothered, and keeps talking. The sound of his voice fills the car while my thoughts sink into the space between us, the easy charm from dinner thinning into something heavier.
By the time he pulls up in front of my house, I’ve already decided I should’ve taken the cab. I unbuckle fast, forcing brightness into my tone.
“Thanks for dinner!”
He’s out of the car before I’ve shut the door, circling around and falling into step beside me. The air is cooler now, and my breath fogs faintly as we walk up the path. The porch light hums overhead, buzzing a warning as if it can tell I don’t want him this close. I slip the key between my fingers, teeth pointed outward, just in case.
