He’s the goalie. The sentinel. The man who saw me—sawthroughme—in the tunnel.
My stomach clenches with a feeling that isn’t just fear. It’s… recognition. And that’s even more dangerous.
A waitress weaves through the crowd, dropping off a tray of drinks. Clara must have ordered the sweating glass of water that lands in front of me. The ice clinks softly against the rim as Igrip it, the cold a brief, grateful shock against my palms. The first swallow is so cold it hurts. I welcome the sting. It’s clean. It belongs to me.
In the shuffle of passing glasses, Zoë decides she’s done with our arrangement.
“I can’t hear anything over here,” she complains, half climbing over the table to glare at Gio. “We’re switching.”
Panic, cold and sharp, lances through me. My safe corner. “I’m fine—”
Too late. Zoë is already sliding out, forcing everyone on our bench—Maya, Genny, and then me—to follow. I’m nudged out of my corner and into the open. Exposed.
The air thins. Every muscle braces as if impact is coming.Don’t be weak. Don’t make a scene.
Zoë darts around the table and wedges herself in next to Gio, who groans but makes room.
“See? Better,” she declares.
The shift triggers a chain reaction.
“Might as well,” Genny mutters, sliding onto the guys’ bench next to Adrian and Clara. The line compresses, players shifting down to open space.
Maya hovers, looking just as miserable as I feel, until Cole slides down a few inches and Dante follows, clearing the narrow endcap of the booth. She reluctantly takes the spot that opens up… right next to Dante.
That leaves one empty seat. The last one.
It’s at the far end of the guys’ bench—the trapped seat. The one tucked deep against the wall.
And Declan is sitting on the aisle, blocking it.
A new, sharper panic seizes me. Not just the panic of being exposed to the room. The terror of being pinned.
“Talia, come on! It’s the only seat left!” Clara calls, oblivious, her cheerful voice ringing hollow in my ears.
My heart hammers a sick, frantic beat. I’m standing. Everyone else is sitting. Taking the seat is the only way to stop the attention.
I step up to the edge of the booth. Declan doesn’t look up at first. He takes a slow pull from his bottle, throat working. Then his eyes lift to mine. Green. Unreadable.
He knows I need in.
He doesn’t stand. He doesn't slide out to the aisle to let me pass.
Instead, he shifts his knees a fraction to the side. Just enough to make it possible, but not enough to make it easy.
He’s forcing the squeeze.
My pulse stutters. I have no choice. I turn sideways, clutching my water glass against my chest like a shield, and step into the narrow gap.
The instant I move, my body collides with his. Not a brush. A clash of friction.
My thigh drags against the hard denim of his knee. My hip presses into his shoulder. The contact is suffocatingly intimate, a solid wall of heat that scorches right through my jeans. I hold my breath, shrinking in on myself, trying to make my body disappear, but he is everywhere. Solid. Immovable.
I scramble into the empty seat, pressing myself hard against the wall.
I’m in.
But now I’m trapped.
