They started pointing—a woman at the jukebox, tall, legs for days; another in a leather jacket leaning at the rail; someone by the dartboard who looked like she could bench-press half the room.
“Her,” Kira decided, nodding toward the one in the jacket. “She looks like she bites.”
“Perfect,” someone else giggled. “He needs biting. Keep him humble.”
I barked a laugh I didn’t feel, leaned back on the stool. “You girls ever think about focusing this much effort on your defensive coverage?”
Groans, boos, one flying napkin.
“All talk, Coach! No game!” Kira tossed her hair over her shoulder. “Look, she’s looking at you already.”
The woman had noticed the noise, gave me one slow once-over. Not shy.
This could work. Let them think I was playing along; it’d keep their gossip pointed anywhere but six feet to my left, where Billie sat pretending to text but actually tracking every second of this circus.
I offered the woman a small nod. She grinned like she’d been waiting for it. Moments later, she pushed off the bar and strolled my way.
The girls broke into applause.
“Yup,” Kira crowed. “Still got it, Coach!”
The woman slid onto the stool beside me, perfume sharp and sweet as a hook. Her smile was polished, eyes lined black with confidence. “You the infamous Calder Shaw?”
“Guilty.” I gave her the kind of grin that used to open doors and start fights.
“Heard the girls chanting you needed company. I figured I’d volunteer.”
“That so?”
She shrugged, crossing one leg over the other, fabric whispering. “They say you used to play for Detroit.”
“Used to,” I said.
“What happened?”
“Life,” I offered, and took a sip of whiskey to close the subject.
She laughed anyway, leaned in closer. “You always this cheerful?”
“Only when supervised.”
That earned another round of cheers from the table. Someone shouted, “Buy him a drink, Mari!”
So that was her name.
She waved for the bartender, ordered a pair of shots. Gave me a sideways smile. “To second chances?”
I lifted mine. “Sure. Why not.”
But my focus was drifting. The crowd blurred into shapes and colour, noise rising and dropping like surf. Across the bar, Billie was still near the wall, phone forgotten now. A guy in a button-down had slid beside her, hand resting too familiar on the counter, leaning in with that practiced proximity of someone used to being told yes.
She smiled—tight, polite, obligatory—but her shoulders had gone rigid.
The bartender set another glass in front of me. Mari talked, her mouth moving too fast, words just noise over the hum in my ears. I nodded when I felt I should, eyes trained past her shoulder.
Button-down laughed at something, touched Billie’s wrist. She pulled it back, gentle but firm. He laughed again, didn’t move.
My grip tightened on the glass. Ice cracked.
