“O’Connor, two assists tonight. Talk about the team effort.”
I flash the smile that’s supposed to behere. “Yeah, the guys played hard. Defense shut them down when it mattered.”
“You had a great look in the third that hit iron. Tough break.”
“That’s hockey. You don’t bury them all.” I shrug like it doesn’t matter. Like I’m not already breaking the shot down in my head—foot placement, release point, the half inch that turns perfect form into noise.
“Big party tonight?”
“Probably. We’ll see.” Another smile. “Thanks, guys.”
I push through before they can ask anything else.
Outside, the cold bites sharp. Campus smells of snow and exhaust, streetlights buzzing yellow against the dark. A group of girls lingers by the arena exit, bundled in BU scarves, phones out.
“Kieran!” One of them waves. “Can we get a picture?”
I stop, because that’s what you do. Smile for the camera, sign the jersey someone hands me, laugh when another one kisses my cheek and her friends squeal.
One slips her number into my jacket pocket. “Text me,” she whispers, fingers trailing down my arm.
I pull back gently, already moving. “Have a good night.”
She pouts, but her friends are already dragging her toward the next player coming out.
My phone stays silent.
I check it anyway.
Nothing.
Just that stupid, restless itch.
The party isin full swing by the time I get there.
Music thumps through the walls, bass rattling the windows. Someone’s already set up beer pong in the kitchen. The living room’s a mess of bodies—dancing, drinking, grinding against each other like the night might end any second.
I walk in and the energy shifts.
“O’CONNOR!” Reed’s voice cuts through the noise. He’s by the keg, red solo cup raised. “Finally. Thought you were gonna skip your own victory party.”
“Just needed to shower.”
He grins, weaving through the crowd toward me. “Or were you waiting for someone? Where’s your little project?”
Something in my chest snaps tight. Not irritation—something faster. Sharper.
Dalton, standing nearby, shoots Reed a look. “Leave it alone, Reed.”
“What?” Reed takes a long drink, eyes never leaving mine. “I’m just curious. You know—the one from Isabelle’s dare. Library girl. What’s it been, a week now?” He tilts his head, enjoying himself. “Haven’t seen you two on campus together. Hell, haven’t seen her at all.”
My jaw sets before I can stop it.
“There’s no dare,” I say. My voice comes out lower than I expect. Flat. “Isabelle was drunk and bored.”
Reed’s smile sharpens. “That’s not what she thinks. Asked her about it yesterday, she says you’re still playing. Just not winning.”
Heat flares—clean, unmistakable. Not because he’s needlingme.
