He laughed at something she said, head back, the lines at his eyes soft for once. It hit lower than I wanted to admit. I pressed my hand to my glass just to keep it from shaking.
Kira followed my stare. “You okay?”
“Fine,” I lied, thumb smudging condensation across the rim.
The blonde touched his arm again, nails painted a red that matched her lipstick. He didn’t pull away. My stomach tightened. For all the words we hadn’t said, for every look that could’ve burned a hole through ice, he looked at her like none of it existed. Like I hadn’t been a stupid mistake he was still trying not to regret.
I hated that I cared. Hated how small it made me feel. I told myself he didn’t matter—he was my coach; he was a warning; he wasa mistake. But my body didn’t get the memo. It reacted anyway, remembering his voice, the way he’d told me to skateharder, the raw command behind it that wasn’t just about hockey.
He caught sight of me for half a second across the bar. No reaction. No flicker of guilt or recognition. Just one calm blink before he went back to the blonde’s ear.
My chest ached so sharp it almost felt funny.
What did you expect, Donovan?That he’d sit alone in some dark corner, pining? That he’d pull you aside, whisper that he missed you, like this was some movie worth saving? Grow up.
I grabbed my drink and finished it in one go. The whiskey bit down my throat like punishment, heat blooming in my chest until it felt almost good. Almost. The glass hit the table with a thud that made Kira jump.
“I’m done here,” I said, even though I wasn’t sure if I meant the bar or something bigger.
She opened her mouth, but I was already on my feet. The air felt too thick to breathe. The laughter from his side of the room followed me out like smoke.
Kira caught me halfway to the door and hooked her arm through mine. “Nope. Not yet. You’re too hot to mope like this.”
“Kira—”
“That guy at the bar has been checking you out for twenty minutes,” she said, yanking me toward the counter.
“Probably thinks I’m about to puke in the parking lot.”
“Billie, shut up and look.”
I did. And damn it, she was right. He was cute—late twenties maybe, forearm ink that curled under the cuff of his rolled-up sleeve, dirty blond hair that looked like somebody’s fingers had already been there. Dimples. Actual dimples. I hated how unfair that felt.
He caught my stare and smiled slow, like he knew I’d been caught looking. Then he poured a shot without being asked, set it in front of me, amber catching the light.
“House special?” I asked.
“On the house.” His voice was easy, confident without being slick. “Rough game or rough guy?”
I raised an eyebrow. “Both. You offering to replace one of them?”
“Only if I get to be both.”
Kira groaned behind me, whispering, “Oh, he did not just say that.”
But he did, and it worked better than it had any right to. I felt a grin pull at my mouth before I could stop it. “That a promise or a threat?”
“Depends. You want soft hands or a strong shot?”
I tipped the whiskey back, letting the burn erase the tight knot sitting under my ribs. “Surprise me.”
He leaned across the bar, close enough that I could smell citrus and smoke on his skin. “I usually do.”
Something reckless unfurled in my chest. Maybe the alcohol, maybe anger, maybe both. It had been a week of bruises—most of them emotional—and flirting felt like rebelling against all of it.
“So what’s your name, mystery man?”
“Evan.” He waited, eyes flicking over my face. “And you?”
