“We’ve got some, thanks.” The blonde lifts her glass with a coy smile. “But we’ll take the company.”
“Be our guests.” He gestures to his empty stool, then elbows my side.
“Ouch. Damn,” I mutter, but stand.
The brunette takes my now-vacated seat. Up close, I notice her eyes are green. She’s wearing perfume that’s too floral, nothing like the citrus scent of Summer’s skin.
“I’m Autumn,” she introduces, extending her hand.
I choke on my drink, sputtering, beer dribbling down my chin. I wipe it off with the back of my hand.
I stare at her, mouth gaped, for longer than is probably polite.
You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. The universe has a sick sense of humor.
I take her hand briefly. “Miles.”
“Tough loss tonight,” she says when I don’t offer anything else.
I should probably ask her a question, or do something. Anything other than standing here, probably looking as miserable as I feel.
This used to be easy.
Helm jumps in, launching into a story about the third period. The blonde—I didn’t catch her name—leans closer to him. Autumn joins in, adding her own commentary about the game.
I shift, pull out my phone, and check it discreetly at my side. Still no response. What am I really expecting? This is my doing, but that doesn’t stop the disappointment that sinks into my gut. I slip it back into my pocket.
When I glance up, Helm’s telling another story, and the women are laughing. I should be laughing, too. This is what I used to do—sit in a bar, talk to a pretty woman, let the night unfold however it was going to unfold. Now, it sounds like the worst possible punishment.
What did I think I was going to accomplish by coming out? Did I really think I could just go back to living my life before Summer? Dumb. So fucking dumb.
My eyes drift to the exit. Twenty steps, maybe. Thirty if I had to weave through the crowd. A ten-minute ride back to the hotel.
I wonder if Summer’s still awake. If she’s writing. If Grace is curled up next to her on the couch, purring while Summer hums some melody she’s working on.
“—right, Miles?”
I blink. Autumn’s waiting for an answer to a question I didn’t hear.
“Sorry, what?”
Her smile tightens just slightly. “I asked if you’re from Chicago originally.”
“No.”
She waits for me to elaborate, but I don’t.
“Where are you from?”
“Canada.”
Another lull in conversation, longer this time. More awkward. I can feel Helm’s eyes on me, a silentwhat the hell, man?written all over his face when I glance at him.
I take another swig.
“So what do you do in the off-season?” Autumn tries again. “I bet you travel a lot.”
“Not really.”
