Yep. That Oliver. The one who began my strained relationship with the name. Niall follows my gaze, turning around to see who I’m staring at.
“That’s...” I’m trying to explain that I’m staring at my ex-boyfriend, who I haven’t seen in five years, andcertainly never here in New Hampshire, when Niall raises his arm and waves at Oliver.
Seeing him, Oliver’s face lights up with relief. He takes a few steps toward the bar, then spots me.
It’s like watching a car accident in slow motion. Oliver grinds to a halt, his mouth dropping open. First his eyes narrow, like he’s trying to bring me into focus, questioning whether he’s actually seeing me. Then recognition dawns and color floods up from his collar—not just red but blotchy, the way it always got when he was caught off guard. His eyes dart to the door he just came through, then to the hallway leading to the bathrooms, his weight shifting to the balls of his feet like he might bolt. His jaw works, that muscle in his cheek jumping the way it always did when he was stressed, before he seems to accept there’s only going forward.
My hand tightens around the glass tumbler until I can feel my pulse in my fingertips, and suddenly the room feels like it’s tilting—not the POTS tilt where everything goes gray at the edges, but something else entirely. My skin prickles with awareness, every nerve ending remembering exactly how those hands used to touch me, how that mouth used to—no. What the hell is Oliver doing here? Wait—is he the friend Niall and I were just talking about? Since when is he coaching high school? Should I run? Make an excuse about having left something turned on at home?
The time for panicking is over, however. Oliver has reached the bar, and there’s nothing left to do but face the music.
The tall, broad-shouldered, handsome, blond music.
“Hey, man.” Niall claps Oliver on the back, and they embrace. “How was your flight?”
“Good.” Oliver’s Adam’s apple bobs with a swallow, and his hands flex at his sides—another tell I remember, what he’d do before crucial plays. “Uh, good.”
“Oliver, this is Devin.” Niall turns to introduce me with abroad smile, and I must be doing a good job of hiding my shock because he doesn’t seem to notice anything is up.
“We know each other,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel.
“Really?” Niall’s eyes light up, then dim as he looks between us, taking in Oliver’s flushed face and my white knuckles, the charged air between us that could probably power the Christmas lights. “Oh.Oh.”
“Yeah.” Oliver clears his throat, the sound rough. His gaze flicks to me, holds for a heartbeat—and in that moment I see a flash of something raw and unguarded before he looks away. “It’s been, uh, what, five years?”
“Something like that.” But who’s counting?
And why does he look so damn good? Age is supposed to wear people down, but he looks strong (albeit a little thinner, the hollows under his cheekbones more pronounced), with soft lines around his eyes that only add character. His blue eyes are still bright, still sharp, like they can see right into my soul.
He shouldn’t be here, in my area. In my life. At my party.
“Excuse me.” I stand way faster than I should. The world doesn’t just tilt—it swoops, my vision fracturing into prismatic colors before narrowing to a tunnel. My legs feel like they’re dissolving, that horrible sensation of my blood pressure plummeting, pooling in my feet instead of reaching my brain. I grip the edge of the bar, my knuckles screaming, counting three breaths before I trust myself to let go. “I forgot to tell Maya something.”
I leave without saying goodbye, my vision swimming as I wind through the crowd. My heart isn’t just hammering—it’s doing that irregular flutter-skip that makes me feel like I’m drowning in my own chest. Maya’s still sitting with the group she was with earlier, but upon seeing my face she gets up and rushes over.
“What is it?” She touches my arm gently, already scanning for signs of a medical emergency—she knows the drill, knows tolook for the gray pallor that means I’m about to hit the floor. “Do you need to sit? Water? Are you feeling ill?”
“Act cool. My ex is here.”
“Your...” Maya frowns in confusion, and of course she should. I haven’t really dated since moving to Pine Island. I’ve had a few flings with men I was never really that interested in to begin with, but dating is just something that doesn’t work for me.
After a moment, her eyes go wide—not the gentle concern from before but something fiercer, protective. “Oh.Oliver?The Oliver who—wait, here? At your party?”
“Yeah, one in a million chance, right? I need to sit down.”
We take refuge in a booth in the corner, away from the bar’s view. For the first time since Oliver walked in, I draw a deep breath that actually reaches my lungs.
“What is he doing here?” Maya leans in, her voice taking on that no-nonsense tone she uses when she’s ready to fight someone. “Did he know you’d be here? Is this some kind of ambush?”
“What? No. He’s Niall’s friend. Randomly. He’s, uh, coaching at the high school. He’s...” It dawns on me as the words come out. “He must be the new assistant ice hockey coach.”
Which means that I’ll be seeing him there, since I’m helping train some of my interns who are putting in hours there this season. We’re working with all the sports teams at the high school, but there’s one sport that has every other sport beat when it comes to its number of injuries.
Hockey.
I close my eyes. “Shit.”
“Shit, what?”
