Logan:??????
I stare at my phone and smirk. He sent me cupcake emojis. Cute. Logan’s cute. But he’s not the hockey player who’s been occupying my thoughts lately. That would be a different one entirely—one with a trim waist and broad shoulders I want to climb. I reapply my mascara and add lip gloss. Just because.
One drink. That’s all.
• • •
The bar is loud and crowded, a local spot the guys found that has good reviews and an impressive beer selection. We commandeer a back corner—Logan, Archer, Banks, a couple of the younger guys whose names I keep mixing up, Zayden, and me.
I’m on my second vodka soda, which is already one more than I planned, and I’m feeling... good. Loose. The tension I’ve been carrying for days is finally starting to ease, helped by Logan’s ridiculous play-by-play commentary and Archer’s dry observations.
“—and then Grayson just stood there,” Logan says, gesturing wildly. “Like a statue. I’m screaming at him to move, and he’s just—”
“I was screening the goalie,” Grayson protests. “It’s called strategy.”
“It’s called being in my way.”
“Your shot went in!”
“Because I’m talented. Not because of your so-called strategy.”
I laugh, and Zayden catches my eye from across the table. He’s nursing a beer—just one, I’ve noticed—and there’s asoftness to his expression I don’t usually see. Relaxed. Happy. It’s nice to see this side of him.
“Having fun?” he asks, leaning closer so I can hear him over the noise.
“Maybe.”
“That’s practically a ringing endorsement coming from you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you’re usually so...” He searches for the word. “Controlled. It’s nice to see you let loose.”
“I’m always loose.”
He raises an eyebrow.
“Okay, fine. I’m occasionally loose. In specific circumstances. With adequate preparation.”
He laughs—actually laughs, head tipped back, throat exposed—and the sound makes my stomach flip. “There she is. The woman who needs a flowchart to have fun.”
“I don’t need a flowchart. I just like to be prepared.”
“For fun?”
“For everything.”
He shakes his head, still smiling. “You’re something else, Tori Wells.”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I take another sip of my drink and try to ignore the warmth spreading through me that has nothing to do with vodka.
An hour later, I’m exiting the restroom when someone stops right in front of me, blocking my path.
“Hey there.”
I glance up at a guy in his thirties, decent-looking, wearing a button-down that’s trying too hard. He’s got that confident smile that suggests he’s used to women responding well to him.
“Hi,” I say, trying to edge around him.
