Nick and I almost spit out our drinks.
“Did you fall on your head during the match on Wednesday?” I cough, trying to clear beer from my windpipe.
Eric gives me a broad smile, but I can’t tell what’s behind it.
“I don’t know,” he says. “Maybe I’m getting old, but I want something real. Something that lasts.”
I look at him, barely stopping my jaw from dropping. Never in my life did I think I’d hear that from Eric.
“I’m proud of you, man,” Nick says, reaching across the table to slap his shoulder—almost choking on the words.
“Thanks,” Eric says, and maybe it’s just the light, but his cheeks look a shade darker.
We spend the next hour talking about our love lives. Mine—basically non-existent, since I spend most of my time training. Eric’s—a long streak of one-night stands he used to be fine with but isn’t anymore. And Nick’s—one big monogamous win. He gets so drunk he goes on a twenty-minute rant abouthow happy Samia makes him, how she’s the love of his life and the best person on Earth.
It’s actually kind of sweet. But I think it makes both me and Eric a little sad—because neither of us has ever had anything close.
To be honest, I’m only half present—partly because I can feel the buzz kicking in faster than I planned for, and partly because my eyes keep darting to the other side of the room, where I know Moon is sitting with his hookup-slash-boyfriend-slash-whatever, even if I can’t see him through the crowd. I try not to look too often, though—I don’t want Nick or Eric to notice—but it’s like I can feel him from across the room.
When all six of our glasses are empty, Nick volunteers to go for the next round.
“I’ll go,” I say quickly, getting to my feet. “I promised to pay for three rounds, and this is the third.”
“I’m coming with you,” Eric says, and I raise an eyebrow at him.
“Scooby calling for you, Shaggy?”
Eric snorts, rolling his eyes. “I told you—I’m not looking for a hookup.”
“Alright, alright,” I say, giving him a smile that says I don’t buy it.
We make our way to the bar, and Eric’s so big people basically part for him like he’s Moses. I follow behind, and the second we squeeze through the crowd, it’s so packed I end up plastered against someone’s back—while someone else immediately presses up behind me.
I’m too far from the bartender, so Eric shoots me a quick what-do-you-want look.
I glance at the beer list, spot a random IPA, and shout, “Heterofatalism!”
But before I can tell him I’m paying, someone right behind me leans in. I catch this hit of lime and green tea—and my heart just takes off, like it already knows.
And when I finally turn, a second later, there he is.
Sawyer Moon.
Half his body is pressed against mine in the crush of the crowd. I glance at him, and my breath catches—we’re that close. His face looks different up close, eyes unfocused, lips puffed like he’s been kissed for hours—which is not something I want to be picturing.
“Hi,” I blurt out, caught off guard by how close we are—and immediately regretting it. Why the hell would I even say hi to him?
His eyes land on mine like he’s only just now realizing I’m here.
His lips part, about to say something—but before he can, an arm slides around his neck, and the guy in the Joker costume shows up at his side, pulling him in.
“Come here,” the guy says, throwing me a quick look that borders on rude.
Moon’s gaze lingers on my face for a second, then he lets the guy pull him toward the bar and turns away.
“Mark,” Eric calls from up front, nodding for me to come closer.
I push through the crowd and lean against the bar top.
