“Exactly. You're going to a concert, not a job interview. Sometimes simple is better.” Jace tossed the shirt at me and then grabbed my leather jacket off the back of the couch. “This, jeans, boots. Done. You'll look hot without looking like you're trying to be someone you're not.”
I caught the shirt and stared at it for a second, trying to figure out if Jace was right or if I was just too far gone to have an opinion anymore. But when I looked up, Coach was nodding in agreement, and I figured if both of them thought it worked, I should probably just trust them and stop overthinking.
“Fine.” I stood up and pulled off the sweater I'd been wearing, replacing it with the black t-shirt. It fit well, not too tight but not baggy either, and when I shrugged into the jacket Jace held out, I had to admit it looked better than anything else I'd tried on tonight. “This works?”
“This works.” Jace walked around me in a slow circle, assessing, and then nodded in satisfaction. “Yeah. You look like yourself, which is what matters. Now go before you lose your nerve.”
I grabbed my keys off the coffee table and shoved them into my pocket, already feeling the anxiety starting to build again now that I was out of excuses to delay. Jace walked me to the door, and when I turned to say goodbye, he pulled me into a hug that was tight enough to ground me for a second.
“You've got this,” he said into my shoulder. “And if it goes badly, call me. I'll bring beer and we'll talk through it.”
“Thanks.” I pulled back and punched him lightly on the arm, the same way I'd been doing since we became linemates. “I'll let you know how it goes.”
Coach appeared in the doorway behind Jace, still holding his book but looking at me with that steady expression that had probably calmed down a hundred panicking players over the years. “Good luck, Rook. And remember what I said.”
I nodded, not trusting myself to say anything else, and then I was out the door and walking toward my car with my heart already racing faster than it should have been.
The driveinto the city felt longer than it actually was, probably because my brain wouldn't shut up long enough to let me focus on the road. I kept running through scenarios in my head, trying to figure out what I was supposed to do when I got there. Walk up to Soren after the show? Wait until he came offstage? Pretend I just happened to be at this specific concert on this specific night and act surprised to see him?
Every option felt ridiculous. Every option felt like too much or not enough, and I had no idea how to navigate the space between showing up and talking to him.
I thought about the photograph again, the one Leroy had given me that I'd already looked at about fifty times since.
Part of me wondered if this was a terrible idea. If seeing him in person was going to make everything worse instead of better, if I was setting myself up for another kind of heartbreak by walking into a room where he might not even want to see me. But turning back wasn't an option anymore. I'd spent too long looking for him, and now that I knew where he was, I couldn't just walk away.
The venue came into view as I turned onto the main strip, a mid-sized club wedged between a record store and a tattoo shop with a neon sign that flickered in the early evening dark. There was a line of people outside waiting to get in, all dressed in black and leather and the kind of effortlessly cool aesthetic that made me feel like an outsider before I'd even parked the car.
I found a spot two blocks down and sat there for a minute with the engine off, trying to steady my breathing and failing. My hands were shaking slightly when I pulled the keys out of the ignition, and I had to remind myself that I was a professional hockey captain who'd played in front of thousands of people and faced down opponents twice my size without flinching. This shouldn't be harder than that.
Except it was. Because this was Soren, and Soren had always been different.
I got out of the car before I could talk myself out of it and walked toward the venue with my jacket pulled tight against the cold. The line had mostly cleared by the time I reached the door, and the bouncer barely glanced at my ID before waving me through. The noise hit me immediately, a wall of sound and heat and bodies pressed together in the dim lighting. The stage was at the far end of the room, currently empty but lit up and waiting, and the bar ran along the left side with people crowded three deep trying to get drinks.
I made my way over and managed to squeeze into a gap near the end, catching the bartender's attention long enough toorder a ginger ale. I wanted my head clear for this, wanted to be present and aware instead of hiding behind alcohol to make it easier. The bartender handed me the glass and I paid, then turned toward the stage and found a spot near the back where I could see without being too obvious about it.
The crowd was getting louder now, anticipation building as the lights dimmed and the MC walked out onto the stage. He said about the opening band finishing up and how grateful they were for everyone coming out tonight, and then he said the words that made my pulse spike.
“Alright, Toronto, are you ready for Neon Veins?”
The crowd roared, and I tightened my grip on my glass hard enough that I was surprised it didn't crack. My eyes were already locked on the stage, scanning for movement, for any sign of the band coming out. The lights shifted, going darker and then flaring back up in shades of blue and purple, and then the first band member walked out.
Not Soren. The guitarist, tall and lean with dark hair and a grin that said he knew exactly how good he looked under stage lights. He raised his guitar in acknowledgment of the crowd and took his position on the right side of the stage. Then the bassist came out, a woman in her thirties with short hair and a no-nonsense expression, and she plugged in and started tuning without fanfare.
And then I saw him.
Soren walked out last, drumsticks already in his hand, and the air went out of my lungs so fast I almost choked on it. He was there. Real. Alive. Moving across the stage with the kind of easy confidence that said he'd done this a thousand times before. He was wearing a black tank top that showed off the tattoos running down both arms, ink that I wanted to trace with my eyes and my hands and learn the story behind. His hair was longer than ithad been in high school, falling into his eyes slightly as he settled behind the drum kit and adjusted the cymbals.
He looked different. Older, rougher. But underneath all of that, he was still recognizable. The way he held himself. The angle of his jaw. The shape of his mouth when he grinned at the guitarist and said hello that I couldn't hear over the crowd noise.
The music started without warning, a hard opening riff that cut through the room and made everyone surge forward. And then Soren started to play.
I'd known he was good. Had heard him on the recordings, had listened to Neon Veins enough times to recognize his style. But seeing him in person was entirely different. He didn't just play the drums. He attacked them, throwing his whole body into every hit, arms moving fast and sure and devastating. Sweat was already starting to form on his skin, catching the stage lights and making the tattoos shimmer.
The song shifted into the bridge and Soren's hands moved faster, sticks blurring against the snare in a pattern that felt both chaotic and perfectly controlled. He looked alive up there in a way I'd only ever seen him look one other time, and that had been on the ice with me beside him, both of us moving in sync like we were reading each other's minds.
I was trapped there watching him, my drink forgotten in my hand, my entire focus narrowed down to the man on the stage who'd disappeared from my life without warning and somehow ended up here, in this city, in this club, playing drums like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the world.
The song ended and the crowd screamed, and Soren looked up from the kit with a grin that was so familiar it hurt. He said to the crowd through the mic clipped to his collar, his voice rougher than I remembered but still carrying that same warmth that had always made people want to be near him.
