My heart misstepped, and I caught myself gripping the back of a chair like it could ground me.
The bartender spotted me and slid a glance toward a corner stool. Easy landing spot. I threaded through the crowd, nodding at clapping hands, deflecting the shrieks of“Coach! You finally showed!”with a practiced smirk.
“Just one round,” I warned no one in particular, voice rough enough to push the point.
I ordered a whiskey, neat. Old habit. The burn hit my throat, steadied my hands.
At the booths, the girls launched into a chant—something about Crestwood rising. Kira stood on the seat, waving a napkin like a banner, leading them with the no-fear grin of a girl who’d never had to rebuild her reputation. For that alone, I almost liked her.
Almost.
Billie turned at the noise, scanned the room, spotted me. Her laugh faded, not gone, just drawn suddenly quieter. She lifted her bottle in a small salute—too polite for how complicated we were—and turned back to her teammate.
I took another drink, longer this time.
This was a mistake.
The music thumped low, all bass and pulse. My pulse.
The girls started some dare game at the booths—truth or drink, from what I could piece together over the noise. Kira cackled after one of Billie’s turns, and Billie rolled her eyes, blushing harder. The sight hit me worse than the alcohol.
I looked away, focused on the glass sweating in my hand. Tried to remember I was a coach, not some idiot chasing ghosts.
The bartender leaned on the counter. “Hell of a game, Coach. Girls played like they gave a damn.”
“Yeah,” I muttered. “They did.”
The words tasted good, honest. Still, my gaze drifted back to her. Couldn’t help it.
Maybe it was the whiskey. Maybe it was me.
Either way, I stayed.
Kira caught me watching them and waved me over like I was the guest of honour instead of the guy ruining their buzz.
“Coach!” she shouted. “You’re sitting alone again. That’s tragic behaviour.”
“Some of us like peace and quiet.”
She leaned across the table, eyes sharp from tequila. “Peace and quiet? You’re inThe Pour House, not a monastery.”
A chorus of laughter rose around her. A few of the girls banged their glasses on the table, chanting,
“Coach needs a date! Coach needs a date!”
I raised both hands. “Jesus, I come for one drink?—”
Kira cut me off. “Exactly. One drink, one date. We’ll help. What’s your type?”
“My type?”
“Yeah,” she said, scanning the bar like she was hunting on my behalf. “Blondes? Brunettes? Women who can tolerate your early-morning suicides?”
The girls howled.
I forced a grin, pretending it didn’t feel like a noose tightening around my neck. “None of your damn business,” I said, trying to sound amused, not cornered.
“C’mon, you’re too scary to approach on your own. Let us do community service.”
