But as I head toward the locker room, I can’t shake the feeling that something’s about to break anyway, and this time, it won’t be a nose.
I knew Miles was a petty son of a bitch. Always has been.
Back when we were kids, he used to steal my homework just to rewrite his name on it and hand it in before I did. Once, he replaced the sugar in my coffee with salt before a tournament because I’d gotten MVP instead of him. In college, he took it up a notch—little things, like flirting with whoever I was seeing, “accidentally” leaking plays to opposing teams during practice, or telling Coach I was hungover when I’d been the only sober one at the party. Petty. Strategic. Always smiling like he was joking even when he absolutely wasn’t.
But showing up atThe Cresttonight with Bella? That’s a new low.
The place is buzzing, music spilling out the open doors, light glinting off liquor bottles behind the counter. I’m restocking glasses when I spot them in one of the corner booths. Miles in his worn leather jacket, Bella practically in his lap, his hand tracing her thigh like she’s a damn trophy.
He’s not even looking at her. He’s looking right at me.
Our eyes meet across the room, and that smug little grin spreads across his face. Yeah. He knows exactly what he’s doing.
I grip the edge of the counter until my knuckles ache. He’s trying to goad me. Trying to make me lose my temper again, the way I did at practice. But not tonight. I’m not giving him the satisfaction.
I turn to Kyle. “You mind taking table eight?”
He follows my gaze, winces. “Miles?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Do me a favor and serve them. Anything they want. On the house.”
Kyle raises an eyebrow but doesn’t argue. I can feel Miles’ gaze still burning holes in my back as I grab a smoke and head outside.
The night air hits cold and clean. I light up, leaning against the brick wall behind the bar, watching the smoke curl into the streetlight glow. I pull out my phone.
I’ve been thinking about calling Chloe all evening. I don’t know why it took me this long. Maybe because I knew if I heard her voice, I’d want to drop everything and just go.
I do it anyway.
One ring. Two. Then she picks up, and it’s FaceTime.
Her face fills my screen, flushed and messy and perfect. She’s sitting cross-legged on the floor in what looks like a half-furnished room—bare pink walls, boxes stacked behind her, a half-assembled dresser. There’s a streak of dust across her cheek and a small wrench in her hand.
“Hey,” I say, smiling. “How’s moving going?”
There’s a loud audible gasp. “What the hell happened to your face?”
“I play hockey, remember?” I lie.
She laughs, that bright, easy sound I swear could fix every bad day I’ve ever had. “I totally forgot just how rough you guys play.”
“I’ll survive. What have you been up to, peeping Tom?”
“I can’t say I love that nickname,” she laughs. “And I’ve been trying to reassemble this dresser for two hours, so I’d say… not great.”
“Two hours?” I tease. “What, did you lose the manual?”
“Iamthe manual,” she says. “Turns out, I’m just terrible at following myself. I built one just like this before and thought, there’s no way I would fuck this up. Turns out, it is not like riding a bike and I totally forgot.”
I can’t help it. I laugh. “Lucky for you, I happen to have a ton of experience with dressers.”
“Really?” She smirks. “You build a lot of them?”
“Of course. I have also broken quite a few in my days,” I say.
She rolls her eyes but she’s smiling, and that’s what kills me—the way her eyes crinkle when she does it. She’s wearing a pale tank top, soft cotton clinging to her shoulders, and the neckline dips just enough for me to see the faint shadow of the marks I left on her. My marks. There’s a light sheen of sweat on her collarbone, and my brain just short-circuits.
“You want help building it?” I ask.
