His voice slides under the noise, direct and impossible to ignore. It’s so close. A low rumble I feel more than hear, vibrating through the bench and his thigh into mine.
The contact point between us turns molten.
I swallow, my throat suddenly dry. “That obvious?”
“Only to people who hate them too.”
The admission feels like a secret he shouldn’t share with me. He tips his beer bottle slightly toward the door, a subtle, almost invisible gesture. “You keep checking the exits.”
My grip tightens on my glass, knuckles white. Of course he noticed. Of course he would.
“Just making a fire escape plan,” I say, aiming for dry and detached, landing somewhere breathier. “It’s a loud, sticky fire hazard in here.”
A corner of his mouth twitches. Not a full smile, but something more honest. “Good plan. Always know your way out.”
For the first time all night, I breathe easier—and that terrifies me. The way he says it, the quiet understanding in those green eyes, robs the air from my lungs. He’s not mocking me; he’s agreeing with me.
“You too?” The question escapes before I can stop it.
“Goalie mentality,” he says, voice dropping even lower, creating a pocket of quiet just for us amid the chaos. “Always know your angles. On and off the ice.”
His gaze intensifies, dropping briefly to my hands, then back to my face.
“You transferred.”
It’s not a question. It’s a statement. Flat. Final.
The directness catches me off guard.
“How did you know that?”
He shrugs, broad shoulders shifting against mine. The rough cotton of his hoodie brushes my jacket, sending a ripple of awareness all the way to my toes. “This town is small. You notice when someone new shows up.”
He takes a slow sip of his beer, eyes never leaving mine. “Especially when they’re the coach’s daughter.”
And there it is. The label. The reason I’m noticed at all.
My shoulders tighten. “Right.”
He nods, as if he sees straight through the title and back to the girl counting exits. His gaze sharpens, cutting deeper.
“That’s why you left,” he deduces.
Again, not a question. A statement.
He sees the exits I’m looking for because he’s looking for them too, and he knows—I’m running from something.
“I needed a change,” I say, the words clipped. The sterile answer I give everyone.
He nods slowly, and I can feel him not buying it. “Big change, coming here.”
“You could say that.”
The air between us thickens with everything unspoken. Under the table, my heel taps against the scuffed floor, an involuntary motion I force to stop.
I will not telegraph shaking.
An hour later, my social battery isn’t just dead; it’s a pile of ashes. The group is louder, looser.
