Koa follows, calmer but no less lethal. “To smart hockey and making them choke on their own bullshit.”
Dash brings it home. “To winning the rivalry in our barn. You came loud,” he winks at Noelle, “Demanded a victory. That’s Brooklyn.”
Glasses clink. Beer spills. Someone pounds on the tables, and others follow suit.
I raise my pint and take a drink before settling down in the leather booth.
I’m halfway through another swallow when something shifts across the room. Not noise. Not movement. Attention.
I follow it instinctively and spot her near the far wall, just outside the team’s orbit. Sofie Fairfax.
She’s not alone this time. A new group of girls flanks her, all dressed sharper than the Icehouse regulars. Elevated. Deliberate. Heels instead of boots. Coats tailored instead of thrown on. Hair done like they knew cameras would be nearby, even if there weren’t any.
They move like they expect to be watched. Every one of them has a phone in hand, screens glowing, thumbs already working. They stand a little straighter, noses tipped up, as if this place is a novelty rather than a second home. Like Brooklyn is a backdrop, not the point.
Sofie doesn’t look at her phone. She doesn’t have to. She stands just slightly apart, posture perfect without being stiff, blazer immaculate, as if she had planned to be here all along. She’s listening, nodding, saying just enough.Tsarina.
One of the girls laughs, head falling back without concern for proximity. Another angles her camera just right. Someone mutters something, and they all glance toward the team area in unison. Hunting.
Sofie finally looks up, and our eyes connect across the room.
There it is again. That flash. Amused annoyance.
She lifts her glass in a mock salute, barely a smile touching her mouth, like she knows she’s got my attention.
This annoys me, so I roll my eyes, break eye contact, and take another drink.
Of course, she’d bring single reinforcements. Of course, they’d be armed with phones and entitlement and that polished hunger that rich girls like her have for men like us. And of course, irrationally, I blame her for it.
“Dude,” Dash says, nudging my shoulder. “You’re trending.”
“Disgusting,” I say.
“No,” Faulker cuts in, phone already out. “Like, aggressively trending.”
I don’t look, I don’t need to, I already know exactly why. Fairfax edits what makes her uncomfortable. She told me that, like it was a warning.
It wasn’t.
She didn’t look rattled. She looked entertained. Like I was a puzzle, she hadn’t decided whether to solve or throw it off the table. That bothers me more than it should.
Someone turns the music up again. Someone else starts chanting Moretti’s name. And somewhere between the noise and the heat and the win, I realize something I don’t like at all. SofieFairfax is not background noise; she’s a problem, and I have a feeling we’re not done circling each other yet.
I’m halfway through a beer when one of the Icehouse regulars slides into my space like she’s been assigned to me.
Short skirt. Glossed lips. The whole routine.
She presses in close, hand skimming my arm, then my chest, like friction alone is supposed to flip a switch. She laughs too loud, leans in, lets herself rub against me like we’re already on the same page.
We are not. My body does absolutely nothing. No reaction. No interest. Just static.
The girl presses closer. “Tonight, will not work for me.”
“I can make it work Killer.”
“Nyet.” I say tipping my glass back as she blinks, confused, then tries again, fingers grazing my thigh like persistence might change the outcome.
It doesn’t.
