I look down.
Standing there, clutching a tiny gold clutch and looking entirely unbothered by the fact that she’s currently wearing a dress the color of a highlighter, is a woman who barely reaches my chin.
She has a halo of blonde hair that’s slightly windswept and eyes the color of a frozen lake in mid-January.
"You ran into me," I say, gesturing to the dark stain spreading across my shirt. "This was custom-made."
She looks at the stain, then up at me, popping a bubble of gum. "And I’m sure your tailor will be devastated. But you were walking like you owned the hallway, Mr. Grump. Some of us are just trying to navigate the minefield of bachelor parties out there."
“Mr. Grump?” I echo, a dry huff slipping out. “I’m allowed to be grumpy. You ruined my shirt.”
“And I’m the one with a bruised shoulder,” she shoots back, stepping closer like she’s ready to present evidence.
She doesn't look intimidated. Most people, when faced with six-foot-three of annoyed hockey player, tend to apologize.
She looks like she’s contemplating poking me with a stick just to see what happens. "You’ve got a very serious forehead, you know that? Very... structural. You need to let a little sunshine in."
"I don't need 'sunshine,'" I say, my voice dropping an octave. The scotch is definitely hitting now, because the way her blue eyes are dancing is making it very hard to stay annoyed. "I need a dry cleaner."
"Well, Sunshine is standing right here," she says with a wicked, dimpled smile. "And Sunshine thinks you look like you haven't had a single bit of fun since the Clinton administration."
"I have fun," I lie. My idea of fun is a clean sheet and a well-executed power play.
"Liar." She tilts her head. "You’re one of those 'controlled' guys, aren't you? Everything in its place. Perfect hair. Perfect scowl. I bet you even fold your socks by color."
"It’s efficient," I grunt.
She laughs, and the sound is dangerous. It’s light and infectious, and for a second, the heavy weight of the Raptors’ upcoming season feels like it’s lifting.
She doesn't know who I am. She doesn't see the Captain; she just sees a guy in a stained shirt.
"Tell you what, Hercules," she says, grabbing my wrist. Her skin is warm, and the contact sends a jolt straight to my gut. "I feel bad about the shirt. Not really, but let’s pretend. Let me buy you a shot to fix that attitude."
"I should go back to my friends," I say, though I make zero effort to move.
"Your 'friends' will survive without their babysitter for a while. Come on. One shot. Unless you’re scared of a little tequila?"
I should say no. I should turn around, find Rhys, and go back to the hotel. But the way she’s looking at me—like I’m a challenge she’s already won—grates against my competitive nature.
“I’m not scared of anything, Sunshine,” I say, leaning down until we’re eye to eye.
“Prove it.”
She doesn’t wait for me to answer.
She spins on her heel and leads me deeper into the neon belly of the club, toward a secondary bar tucked away from the main dance floor.
She signals the bartender, orders two shots of something clear and lethal-looking, and before I can object, she slides one toward me.
“To the shirt,” she says, clinking her glass against mine.
“To the shirt,” I mutter, tossing it back. It burns all the way down, a searing trail of liquid confidence settling in my chest.
She watches me over the rim of her own glass as she downs hers without even flinching.
“You do that a lot?” I ask.
“Do what?”
