I laugh audibly, choking. I calm the coughing, thankful for the music playing to drown out my hacking.
“You literallyjustmet me,” I state matter-of-factly. “You can’t know that.”
“Says you.” He crosses his arms defensively, forcing his muscles to bulge up in his white button-up, which I wish weren’t weakening my resolve to give in more and more by the second. “Sometimes, you just know.”
My heart skips a beat in my chest. My dad always says a similar statement when he tells the story of how he met my mom. He says it was love at first sight. I used to believe in that a lot more than I do now, but that belief faded over the years.
It’s not that I don’t believe in love—I do. Of course I do.
Love is about choices and instinct, finding a balance with your emotions. It’s not such a simple, easily claimed thing. It needs to be yearned for and worked for.
But what can I say? My dad has only ever loved my mom. They were high school sweethearts, and after she passed, he’s never even entertained the idea of dating, claiming that she was the love of his life and he doesn’t want to love if it doesn’t involve her.
I may not remember my mother, but I know she was an incredible woman—that much has to be true for her to be loved as deeply as my dad loves her. That’s the kind of love I want. All-consuming. Passionate. Overwhelming.
But my ability to help other people find their partners apparently doesn’t apply to my own love life. Even when I selected a perfect matchfor myself, I spent three years in a relationship that shouldn’t have lasted longer than a few months.
While Bates seems sweet—and he’sfucking hot as hell—I can’t see my happily ever after happening with an arrogant hockey player.
Anger settles in my chest, and I can’t quite figure out why. But I ignore the pulsing heat—or try to do my best at least.
“Bates …” I trail off, unsure of exactly what to say.
His thick brown eyebrows pinch as his eyes slam shut for a quick moment. “God, I love the way you say my name, even when you’re about to dump me and break my heart.”
A giggle slips free from my lips, and I scold myself forenjoying his flirting more than I should. “I can’t dump you if we were never together.”
He winces. “Now you’re just trying to hurt me.”
Shoving lightly at his chest, I try to push him back, but he stands still without wavering.
“If you wanted to feel me up, you could’ve just asked. I know a thousand places here we can hide.”
The thought bounces around my mind, and, God, it sounds like the most delectable idea. But I have a feeling that when Bates gets his arms around someone, they have a hard time escaping his smirk and wit. I’m already damn near face-first in his little flirt trap. I know the moment he touched or kissed me, I’d be a goner.
Which is why I step back, pressing against the counter. “I’m sorry. I’m just not interested.”
A playful gleam sparkles in his gaze, and his head cocks to the side. “Now you’re just lying to me.”
I part my lips to double down on my untruth, but he cuts me off, holding his hands up at his sides in surrender.
“You know where to find me if you change your mind.”
“I won’t,” I assure him, swirling the wine in my glass to distract myself so I don’t immediately go back on my word.
He turns on his heel to head back toward his table. I watch him until he gets back to his seat, and my stomach twists when two other players greet him with smiles, laughter, and amusement.
Was this just a game for him? A dare or something for them to laugh at?
A pit forms in my stomach as I walk back to my seat,feeling a whole new warmth all over, the kind of hot flash you get when you’re going to puke.
Maybe I’m reading into it too much, letting my insecurities narrate my thoughts. Maybe he’s not grinning at my expense as he sits down with his friends. Maybe?—
His intense stare flicks up to me, like he knows exactly where I am. I can practically see the wheels turning behind his eyes as he examines me carefully. I wish I could read his thoughts, but I might be scared of what I find, given the devilish glimmer in his eyes.
Forcing myself to look away, I find my dad lost in conversation with one of his assistant coaches, clearly unaware that one of his players was hitting on me at the bar. I know he’s not just playing it off. He’d have been mad if he had seen that, and he couldn’t have resisted reacting in the moment.
I slide into my seat, watching the red wine swirl in the glass. It’s beautiful, a deep burgundy that oddly reminds me of the Sinners’ jerseys, complemented with pink, white, and black. An image of Bates in his jersey flashes in my mind.
