I laugh, shrugging his words off, and keep dancing. But my skin is buzzing now. And it’s not from the music.
It’s from him.
I keep dancing.
On purpose.
I exaggerate it a little—extra sway of my hips, a lazy roll of my shoulders—just to prove to myself that I can. That he doesn’t get to ruin this. Daniel laughs and spins me again, and I let my head fall back, eyes closed, pretending I don’t feel the weight of that stare burning into my skin from across the room.
Tall. Dark. Brooding.
Coach Gray does not belong in Riot. He didn’t belong here the night I first met him, and he doesn’t belong here now.
And yet.
By the third song, my throat’s dry, and the tequila’s finally caught up to me. I lean in close to Daniel’s ear. “Bathroom break.”
“Same!” he shouts back. “Water first or I’m gonna die.”
We split without ceremony—him veering toward the bar, me slipping through the crowd toward the hallway that leads to the bathrooms. The music dulls as soon as I step out of the main room, bass fading to a distant thrum through the walls.
I barely get two steps down the hall before the air changes. Before a shadow falls over me and a hand plants against the wall beside my head.
I stop short.
Silas is suddenlythere—too close, too big, filling the narrow hallway like he owns it. He smells like whiskey and something clean underneath it, and it hits me straight in the chest.
I look up.
Way up. Was he always this tall?
He’s towering over me, one arm braced against the wall, the other hanging loose at his side like he hasn’t decidedwhat to do with it yet. His jaw is tight. His eyes are dark and furious.
Dangerous.
“So,” I say lightly, because apparently I have a death wish. “Did you follow me, or is this a coincidence?”
His gaze drops to my mouth. Then back to my eyes.
“You enjoying yourself?” he asks.
The question is flat.
I shrug, forcing myself not to lean back, even though every instinct is screaming to give him space. “Looks like it, doesn’t it?”
His nostrils flare. “Who is he.” Not a question, more of a demand.
I smile anyway. “A friend.”
His jaw flexes again, muscle jumping. “You don’t dance like that with friends.”
“Maybe you don’t,” I say. “Some of us are multi-talented.”
Silas leans in closer, lowering his voice. “You think this is funny.”
I tilt my head, meeting his stare head-on. “I think you benched me for being ‘injured,’ and now you’re glaring holes through my fake boyfriend as though you have the right. You don’t, by the way.”
Something flashes across his face. “Don’t,” he says.
