“Why is your arm around me?”
“‘Cause I love you, man.” He chuckles and walks toward the back while we hit the bar.
“Two shots of Beluga Gold Line, Mick,” Faulker says.
Mick puts them right up and the two pints of Paulaner. “On us tonight. Nobody gets to question your grind.”
Giulietti has claimed a high-top toward the back, shots lined up with military precision.
“Let’s do this,” Smith announces as we crowd in.
Koa goes first, “I’d like to thank their defense,” he says gravely. “For giving me so much personal space.” He lifts his glass. “And to Killer, who creates opportunities by making grown men reconsider their life choices.”
Laughter ripples.
Dash leans in, eyes bright. “I scored because their goalie was watching Aleks instead of the puck. Which is fair.” He raises his shot. “To Killer. The most effective distraction in professional hockey.”
Stone lifts his drink without ceremony. “I scored because nobody wanted to stand in front of him,” he says. “I respect that instinct.”
Giulietti taps his glass, “To the Brooklyn Bears who win fast, drink selectively, and somehow make intimidation look like teamwork.” Her eyes flick to me. “And to Aleks. Proof that you don’t have to talk to be terrifying.”
The chant has softened now, still there but dulled, like the room doesn’t know what else to do with me.
KILLER. KILLER. KILLER. The crowd is demanding something of me I don’t want to give, but I must.
“I don’t like bars.” They quiet immediately, and I lift my pint. “Or crowds. Or nicknames. But I like this team, this pub, and so do you.”
I take a sip, a seat, and glance at the door, already calculating my exit.
And that’s when she walks in. Irritation grates on my skin as I remember her utter refusal to get out of my vehicle when I dropped her off last night saying, “I’m Sofie Fairfax, I don’t open doors for myself.”
I keep my eyes on my glass. The condensation ring. The scar in the wood of the table. Anything but the door.
I take another sip. Slower this time. Like I’m not suddenly hyper-aware of my own hands, my posture, the fact that I chose this seat because it gave me a clean exit, and now feels like a trap.
Dash leans closer. “You good?”
“I’m fine,” I say.
He follows my gaze. Or lack of one. His grin sharpens. “Liar.”
Stone glances past me, then back, then lifts his beer, “What did I miss?”
Giulietti’s eyes flick to the door, then straight to me. He smiles into his pint.
I adjust in my seat, angling my body away, shoulders squared to the table like I can physically block her presence. I am not curious. I am not affected. I am not counting steps.
Do not look.
Someone pulls out a chair nearby. The scrape is close. Too close.
I finally glance up, just enough to clock the reflection in the mirror behind the bar.
I see her grabbing the glass of wine and another drink, one for Nalani, clearly no alcohol, as she and Koa are pregnant, and the women in the States think it’s criminal to have a glass of wine while growing a child.
Her coats half off, hair in loose waves, chin lifted like she owns the room and resents it at the same time. She’s not looking for me.
Good. But that somehow makes it worse.
