Page 42 of On the Breakaway

That’s what I tell myself, anyway.

I’m halfway to the Blue Line before I spot a crowded bar a few streets over and make a last-second turn to park on the street.

If I’m doing this alone, I might as well go somewhere new.

When I walk inside, heat and noise slam into me. The floor sticks slightly beneath my shoes. Every table is packed shoulder-to-shoulder with people drinking and shouting over each other.

Honestly, it’s not a bad atmosphere.

There are dartboards along the back wall, a couple of pool tables near the far side of the room, and a dance floor crowded with bodies moving beneath flashing lights.

I order a whiskey at the bar.

Before I can finish half of it, one of the guys near the dartboards catches me watching their game.

“You’ve got that look,” he says, pointing a dart at me. “Like you think you can do better.”

“I know I can do better.”

“That confidence usually means you suck.”

“Probably,” I agree.

Turns out, I don’t suck.

Within a few attempts, I’m getting dragged into rounds with three guys who are all already drunk, arguing over rules they clearly don’t fully understand.

One works in construction. One teaches middle school history and looks permanently exhausted because of it. The third talks about football like he’s being paid by the word.

Nobody mentions hockey once.

I can’t tell if they genuinely don’t recognize me or if they do and are politely ignoring it. Either way, I appreciate feeling normal.

For a while, I relax. Not fully, but enough that tonight’s loss stops replaying in my head. Eventually, I step away to order another drink, leaning against the bar while I scan the crowd.

My gaze stops cold as I catch sight of fire-red curls and a body that’s been burned into my brain for two weeks.

Avery.

My entire body goes still before my brain catches up.

She’s near the center of the crowd as colored lights flash over her skin. A guy stands behind her with his hands on her hips. She’s swaying with the music, laughing at something he says near her ear, head tipping back slightly.

And against all logic, irritation punches through me. Because, despite whatever the hell happened behind the bar two weeks ago and the fact that she manages to irritate me within thirty seconds of every interaction, my body still remembers exactly how she felt beneath my hands.

Her pulse had jumped beneath my fingers when I grabbed her wrist. She looked up at me afterward like she was angry at herself for reacting at all.

I’ve spent two weeks avoiding her because whatever that was felt dangerous in a way I don’t like. Avery seems like the kind of woman who would set my life on fire just to stay warm herself.

And regardless of that entire encounter, I still can’t stand her. If anything, I’m more convinced than ever that we should stay the hell away from each other. Unfortunately, the universe seems to have different ideas.

I take another sip and force myself to look away, but before I do, she stumbles. It’s not a cute little misstep either. It’s a drunk one.

The guy catches her around the waist while she steadies herself against him. My brows pull together while I watch her more closely.

A second later, she nearly loses her balance again.

My stomach coils into a knot as I realize that she’s drunk, and the guy holding her either hasn’t noticed or is vile enough not to care.