No. Stop. You pathetic idiot. Stop this. Skyler’s being friendly. He’s friendly with everyone. It’s part of his whole golden retriever energy.
I typed back something practical about not wanting to be responsible for his garbage performance in Seattle, even though every part of me wanted to say, “Yes, absolutely, let’s spend every possible minute together before you leave for two weeks.”
Two weeks.
The thought sat heavy in my chest.
Me: I’ll still be here when you get back. The bar isn’t going anywhere. I’m not going anywhere.
I sent it before I could overthink the words, then overthought them anyway. Was that too much? Too clingy? Did “I’m not going anywhere” sound like a promise I had no business making?
PuckingSkylerShaw: Fine. But when I get back, you’re taking me somewhere equally ridiculous. I want another restaurant that used to be a vehicle. Or still is one. Surprise me.
Me: I know a place that’s a boat. Like, it floats and everything.
PuckingSkylerShaw: I’m already obsessed.
We bantered back and forth for another few minutes before he signed off with his usual “Night, Jacks” and I responded with my usual “Night, Sky.”
Sky.
The nickname had slipped out without my permission, and now I couldn’t stop using it. It felt intimate in a way that “Skyler” didn’t. It felt personal. Like something only between us.
Which was ridiculous, because half of Tampa called him Sky.
I set the phone down and rubbed my face with both hands.
This was bad.
This was really, really bad.
I’d promised Finn I’d be careful. I’d promised myself I’d keep things in perspective. Skyler was straight, famous, and going through some kind of personal crisis that had nothing to do with me. I was a convenient distraction, a friendly face outside his hockey bubble.
That’s all this was.
That’s all it could ever be.
But telling myself that didn’t stop me wanting more. It didn’t stop the way my chest ached when I thought about two weeks without seeing him. It didn’t erase the memory of his fingers in my hair, or the look in his eyes when time had frozen between us.
Something had shifted beneath that oak tree.
I didn’t know what it meant—maybe nothing, maybe a weird moment he’d already forgotten—but I knew what it meant for me.
I was in trouble.
Deep, stupid, hopeless trouble.
The next two days passed in a blur of bar shifts and text messages. Skyler sent more updates from practice, complaints about early morning skates, and a running commentary on Murph’s latest pranks. I responded with Barbacks chaos, mostly revolving around Benji’s most recent dating disasters, Rod’s ongoing war with the ice machine, and a customer who’d tried to pay his tab in Bitcoin.
Chatting with Skyler was easy and fun. It was the kind of constant low-level connection that made mefeel like he was right there even when he was across town.
It also made everything worse.
“You’re checking your phone again.”
I looked up to find Benji watching me from across the bar, his expression somewhere between amused and pitying.
“I’m not checking my phone.”
