“Good game tonight.” He takes a sip of his drink, never breaking eye contact. “You made some impressive saves.”
“You saw?”
“Hard to miss when the whole bar boos every time you stop a puck.”
My lips lift into a half-smirk as I play it cool.
The bartender sets my beer down, and I wrap my fingers around the cold glass. “You know hockey?”
Something flickers across his face, too quick to read. “I know enough.”
The non-answer should bother me, but it doesn’t. I’m used to people wanting to know everything about my life, my stats, my plans for the future. His disinterest feels like relief.
“You’re not much of a talker,” I say.
His mouth quirks. “Neither are you, apparently. Most players would still be soaking up the win with their teammates.”
Heat crawls up the back of my neck. “Maybe I don’t feel like celebrating.”
“Bad night?”
“Not bad. Just... ” I trail off, not sure how to explain the restlessness, the feeling like I’m waiting for something I can’t put my finger on. “Different.”
He studies me for a long minute, and I feel too exposed. Like he can see through every wall I’ve built. My skin prickles under his heavy stare.
“Different can be good,” he says finally.
The words settle into my mind. I take a long pull from my beer, using the seconds to calm the pulse punching a hole in mythroat. When I put down the glass, he’s still watching me, and the glimmer in his eyes makes my stomach flip.
“What’s your name?” I ask, even though part of me likes this anonymity.
“Does it matter?”
The question should piss me off. Instead, it sends a thrill through me. He’s right. Names complicate things and make them real.
And whatever this is, I’m not ready for it to be real.
“No,” I say. “I guess not.”
He turns on his stool to face me, and I catch his scent again. God help me, it makes me want to move in closer.
“You’re tense,” he says.
“Yeah, well, it’s been a long season.”
He lifts an eyebrow. “Is that all?”
My heart stutters at his knowing look, and the urge to tell him the truth grabs hold…that I’m twenty-four years old, and I don’t know what the hell I want. I’ve spent my entire life focused on hockey because it was easier than dealing with everything else, and lately I’ve been having thoughts I’m afraid to acknowledge.
But I can’t say any of that. Not to a stranger. Not to anyone.
“Yeah,” I say. “That’s all.”
He doesn’t believe me. His expression tells me as much. But he doesn’t push, thank fuck.
The bartender moves away to serve other customers, leaving us staring at each other, a silent challenge hanging between us.
“You want to get some air?” he asks.
