“You sure you don’t wanna grab that drink?”
James still signs it, even though she’s already smiling and shaking her head. She signs back quickly.
“Another time,” he translates.
I nod. “I’ll hold you to that.”
I pull my phone out again. “Here… so you have my number. Text me anytime.” I hit call, letting her phone buzz once before hanging up. “Don’t keep me waiting, Bayleigh.”
She nods, a small smile tugging at her mouth. It feels like something solid between us—simple, but real.
The crowd starts shifting, people pouring toward the exits. She gathers her bag, giving me a quick wave before slipping into the flow of bodies heading for the tunnel. I could follow, but that feels too much like chasing. So instead, I stack our empty cups and napkins on the tray, pretending to clean up while the distance between us stretches just enough to keep me from looking like a creep.
By the time I finally make my way down, the air smells like sweat, cheap beer, and victory. The tunnel hums with voices and leftover adrenaline.
Korbin and Milton take forever to come out. I scroll through my phone, half tempted to text Bayleigh something stupid likegood game.
Then I hear it.
A laugh—high and awkward.
I look up automatically. And everything in me goes still.
The Krakens are filing out of their locker room, half dressed, grinning like they own the place. At the center of them is Benton Lennox, still in his gear, helmet under one arm. And in his arms, smiling like she belongs there—is Bayleigh.
Fucking hell.
My chest tightens. The pieces click fast.
Lennox.
Bayleigh.
The jersey.
They’re together.
But she gave me her number. And now she’s in his arms, smiling like she belongs there. Maybe they’re together. Wouldn’t be the first time I read things wrong.
I must be staring, because a hard smack hits my back.
Milton’s voice cuts through. “What ya looking at?”
“Nothing,” I mutter, eyes still on her.
“Yeah, sure.” He laughs. “That face says something different. What’s caught your eye, man?”
“Nothing,” I snap again.
Korbin follows my gaze, and when he spots Lennox, his expression hardens. “Maybe I should steal his whore like he stole mine. Might take away the sting of losing to him,” he mutters.
I swing before I think. My hand connects with the side of his head, more a warning than a hit. “Don’t talk about her like that.”
Korbin rubs the spot, glaring. “You know her?”
“Sat next to her at the game,” I say, voice low. “She’s nice. Even after I was a dick.”
Korbin snorts. “What the hell were you doing sitting with a Kraken fan?”
