He muttered something under his breath and looked down at his glass, effectively neutralized.
I turned away, my heart thudding a hard, angry rhythm against my ribs. I shouldn't have done that. It was bad for business, bad for tips, and a massive neon sign that I was giving Michael Landry far too much bandwidth.
On the TV, Michael was lining up for a face-off, his helmet pushed back, sweat matted to his forehead. He looked exhausted, but determined.
I reached for the soda gun and filled a glass with water, my hands shaking just a fraction. I told myself it was just because I hated bullies. Because he’d helped me with the cookies and I owed him some professional loyalty.
But as the puck dropped and I watched him dive into the scrum, I knew the lie wasn't going to hold much longer. I wasn't just watching a game; I was watchinghim. And that was a complication I hadn't budgeted for.
The final horn blared from the television speakers, nearly drowned out by the roar of the crowd at Frost Bank and the synchronized explosion of noise inside the bar. The Surge had clinched. Playoffs were a reality, not a mathematical prayer anymore.
By the time the post-game highlights were looping for the third time, the heavy front doors swung open and the humidity of the night rushed in, followed closely by a tidal wave of adrenaline and expensive cologne. The team arrived like a conquering army, their faces flushed with the high that only came from knowing the season was only just starting.
I kept my head down, snapping the tops off a row of longnecks with mechanical precision. My pulse was doing a nervous tap-dance against my ribs. Somehow, in a bar full of people, I knew exactly where Michael was without looking. It was as if I could feel the tilt in the room's gravity the second he crossed the threshold.
"Kayla! Shots for the table! Top shelf!" Tucker yelled, sliding onto a stool. He looked remarkably unscathed for a man who’dbeen in a locker room brawl forty-eight hours ago, though there was a faint yellowing bruise near his jaw.
I ignored him, focusing on a customer who leaned over the wood at the far end. "What can I get you, Artie?"
"Gimme a Scotch, neat. And maybe some of those pretzels if you’ve got 'em," he said.
"Coming up." I reached for the bottle, but my ears were tuned to the frequency of the booth three feet to my right. The team had huddled together, a mess of broad shoulders and loud laughter.
"So, Landry," Cash’s voice rose above it all, dripping with that specific, locker-room brand of provocation. "You played like a man possessed tonight. Second line looks good on you. Almost as good as that shirt looks on Kayla."
Heat crawled up my neck. I focused intently on the liquid flowing into Artie’s glass, counting the seconds.One. Two. Three.
"Shut up, Cash." Michael’s voice was a deep, warning rumble. He sounded tired, but there was a thread of amusement there that made my stomach flip.
"Oh, come on," Landon chimed in, leaning over the back of the stool. "He’s been moping around the locker room like a lovesick teenager. Seventy-five cookies, man. You’ve got the stats, you’ve got the veteran contract... what you don't have is the balls to actually ask her out."
"Maybe he's scared she'll say no," Tucker added with a snicker. "The old man getting shut down by the local talent. That’d be a tough one for the ego, wouldn't it?"
I was staring at Artie’s Scotch, not moving. Just cataloging every word being exchanged behind me. My heart thrummed so hard I was sure they could hear it over the jukebox. I imaginedMichael’s face and the way his brow would furrow, the way he’d probably be staring at the grain of the wood, trying to wish them into oblivion.
Does he?The thought flashed through my mind like a lightning strike.Does he actually want to ask me out?
"Earth to Kayla? You still in there?"
A sharp snapsounded inches from my nose.
I jolted, the bottle of Scotch slipping in my hand and clinking loudly against the rim of the glass. I blinked, coming back to the reality of the bar, and Artie was staring at me, his fingers still poised in the air from the snap.
"I asked for a water back, too," he said with a frown. "You okay? You looked like you were staring into another dimension."
"Sorry. Long night," I muttered, my face burning. I grabbed the soda gun, the hiss of the water sounding like a judge’s gavel. "Water back. Coming right up."
I risked a glance toward the team. Michael was looking right at me. He wasn't laughing with the guys, but watching the way I fumbled with the water glass, his expression intense.
The guys were still at it, their voices a blurred drone of "chicken" and "old man," but the air between me and Michael had gone static. I realized then that I wasn't just giving him bandwidth anymore. I was handing over the whole damn radio station.
"Your water, Artie," I said, sliding the glass across the bar with a hand that wasn't nearly as steady as I wanted it to be.
I turned my back to them, reaching for a clean rag, my mind racing. I was a mother. I was a bartender on thin ice. I was a woman who didn't have room for a complication. But as I wiped the same spot on the back-bar for the fourth time, all I couldthink about was the look in Michael’s eyes when the room went quiet.
Then, the front doors swung open, and the chess board flipped.
Gabe walked in, his hoodie pulled low, hands shoved deep into his pockets. He didn't look like a kid, but a shadow moving through a room full of giants. My heart did a painful stutter-step.
