Crazy Little Thing Called Love (Sun Tower #3)

27. Raees

27

Raees

N o one notices when I walk in.

Not a single glance in my direction considering how tirelessly they’ve been about getting me out.

It’s fine.

I didn’t come here to be the life of the party. I came to try—keyword: try —to make some kind of social connection with these people. To feel like I belong with them outside the department, at least a little.

I weave my way through the crowd, brushing past a sea of Toronto Titan jerseys mixed with Detroit Dragons merch. Titans versus Dragons. The names alone sound like the kind of fantasy battle you’d find on the back of a paperback novel. Fitting, I guess—mythical, like their chances of beating an actual powerhouse team: The Florida Panthers. That’s Ramishah and Harry’s team.

Stop. Enough of that. No room for cynicism tonight.

Who knows? Maybe by the end of this, I’ll walk out a hockey fan. Stranger things have happened.

I rub my fingers together as I close in on the group.

They’re standing in one of those loose, impenetrable circles that’s more wall than conversation.

I recognize a few faces: Giovanni Paldoni, the head of the engineering department, and a man whose laugh you can hear three offices away; Victoria Rhodes, who I think teaches thermodynamics; and Ben Nguyen, whose name I only remember because he introduced himself at a seminar by making a pun about Newton’s Laws.

Giovanni is mid-story when I step up, but no one adjusts to let me in. I stick to hovering awkwardly at the edge. “—and I told her, ‘Babe, I’ll bring home the dough, and you can bake the pies.’ You know what I mean?” The group laughs, as if Gio’s delivered this punchline a hundred times. He notices me immediately given I’m the only one not laughing. “Well, look who decided to crawl out of his cave. The hermit himself!”

I force a smile. “Figured I’d take a night off,” I say, nodding politely around the group.

“From the wife?” Gio slaps my arm, hard enough to make me flinch. “Congrats, buddy.”

The group laughs again, and I can’t tell if it’s at me.

“Thanks,” I mutter, stepping back slightly. My hand goes to my arm instinctively, rubbing at the spot where he hit me.

“We’re glad you could make it,” someone says to me. Professor Harrison. No, wait. Just Dave. He’s got a splotch of mustard on his chin that catches the light every time he moves.

I open my mouth to say something, but Jenna beats me to it. She points it out with a quick laugh, and the group erupts into chuckles.

I stand there, hands shoved in my pockets, watching the conversation continue like I’m not even there. Maybe tonight isn’t the night. Or maybe I’m not cut out for this kind of thing.

Find a way to make yourself part of the circle. It’s just a conversation, not an interrogation.

But Gio’s making it a challenge. “So, I look at the guy and say, ‘You really think you’re gonna out-engineer me? Good luck, buddy.’ And he actually had the balls to try!”

My God, how many stories does this man have?

Jenna, standing to my left, glances at me briefly. I think it’s encouragement, or maybe she’s just checking if I still want to be here. Either way, it feels like an opening.

I straighten my shoulders a little and step closer, trying to look like I belong. “That’s bold,” I say, pitching my voice louder. “Did he actually give it a shot?”

Gio doesn’t even look at me. He fires right on, like I hadn’t said anything at all. “And then he brings out this duct-taped contraption, like he’s MacGyver or something. I mean, come on, man.”

The laughter swells again, and I feel myself deflate. I glance at Adam, but he’s smiling politely at Gio, his drink cradled in one hand. I wait, thinking maybe someone will loop back to my comment. But the conversation keeps moving, leaving me behind.

Victoria shifts, turning a bit, and her elbow catches my arm—not hard, but enough to make me step back.

“Oh, sorry,” I mumble, automatically.

She doesn’t even notice. She’s already responding to Gio, saying something about her own department’s ongoing rivalry with another university. I stand there, rubbing my arm where her elbow landed, feeling more invisible by the second.

I take another breath . Fine. Another try .

I made sure to research in the parking lot to strike up this specific conversation. “So, uh, how about last night’s game?” I say, aiming this one at Ben, who’s standing a little to my right. “That save in the second period was something—”

“Hang on, hang on,” Ben says, holding up a hand as he turns to Victoria. “But did you see North Haven’s campus renovations? A ten-story library, people. Ten stories.”

His words bulldoze right over mine, and the group shifts again, pulling closer together. I’m pushed just slightly to the outside. Not far, but enough to make it clear I’m not really in this circle.

“Okay. Cool.” I take a half-step back, letting the gap widen.

Someone brushes past me from behind—a guy in a Dragons jersey holding a tray of nachos. One of his nacho chips drops onto my shoe. Without apologizing, he just walks off.

I stare at the chip for a second, half-considering leaving it there just for the metaphor. But no, that’s pathetic. I nudge it off with the edge of my other shoe and stand there, hands back in my pockets, pretending I don’t feel ridiculous.

“Raees!”

I groan inwardly and turn around.

Saira’s coming toward me, walking fast, one hand trying to keep her purse from sliding off her shoulder.

Great. Just great. Because I made a rule tonight about not calling anyone “Professor” after hours, I’ll have to extend the courtesy to her.

She stops short, eyes wide, and then, of course, cue the commentary. “Raees Shaan in jeans? Never thought I’d live to see it.”

I hold her gaze, but her comparing me to my father echoes in my skull, dredging up memories of my panic attack I don’t need tonight.

Not here. I shove it down. Hard. Play it cool. Stick to the rules of polite society.

“My wife dug them out of the closet.”

“She’s got great taste,” Saira says, brushing past me. She glides over to the engineering department professors, arms wide, pulling them into hugs like she’s been part of their inner circle for years.

Then again, that’s Saira. She never had to work for connections the way the rest of us do. Back in the day, her friends became my friends. Thick as thieves. Loyal, at least to her. Never mind their leader was a cheater. Dial it back, Raees.

The group starts filing into the row of seats, exactly where Saira said we’d be. Top tier, a clear view of the action. Out of the ten seats in our designated row, we occupy seven.

I claim the aisle seat. Easy escape route if I need to cut out early. My social tolerance has limits, and tonight’s already testing them.

Sliding my phone out of my pocket, I thumb a quick text to Zinneerah.

Me: At the game.

I snap a picture of the rink, the players stretching, the cool gleam of the ice under the stadium lights, and attach it.

Sent.

“Perfect seats, huh?” Saira says from my side, catching me off guard. When did she sit next to me?

I glance sideways, then lean forward slightly, scanning the row. Giovanni’s parked on her other side, chatting with one of the professors. The rest of the row is filled out—professors, a couple I don’t recognize, and their kid wriggling in the last seat.

Saira tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, already pulling the rest into a quick ponytail. “Marcus put the whole thing together, but the seats are all me.” She digs around in her purse, fishing for something. “Michael Jones—his dad’s an investor here. He gets comp tickets to pretty much everything. Hockey, concerts, Broadway shows. You name it, he’s got it.”

Her hand emerges with a small mirror and lipstick, and she pops them open like it’s a ritual.

“I see,” I murmur, watching the players line up for a drill.

She dabs on the lipstick, her eyes never leaving the mirror. “Remember Hamilton ? You were fuming when it was sold out.” The compact snaps shut. “Next day? Ta-dah. Tickets in your hand. That was Michael, too. A little networking works wonders.”

I run my hands through my hair, letting out a slow breath as the exasperation churns beneath my ribs.

I don’t even like musicals, especially not something as mind-numbing as Hamilton . The only reason I’d even bothered trying to score those tickets was because it had been her birthday weekend. That’s it. A gesture. A thoughtful, good boyfriend move. And when she’d popped up, skipping, squealing with her own stupid tickets in hand, flapping them around like a golden prize, I’d wanted to crawl into a hole and disappear.

It wasn’t just the tickets. It was everything. No matter what I did, no matter how hard I tried, it always seemed to fall short. Like I wasn’t enough. If it wasn’t her family or her high-powered friends filling in the gaps, it was someone else. Always someone else.

My phone buzzes in my pocket.

I pull it out, and it’s like the invisible leash cinching around my throat loosens.

Love of my life: Us too.

Her reply comes with a picture: Ophelia leaning forward, laser-focused on the home theater screen, the glow of the pre-game highlights lighting her face. Juliette’s curled up, half-asleep on Alex’s lap, her head resting against her shoulder.

Me: The next hockey game, we’re all going. I’m not taking ‘no’ for an answer.

The ellipsis bubbles pop up almost immediately. She’s typing. Typing for a while.

Love of my life: I’ve been to a few at the arena. They served these chocolate pretzels in a cup that I ate. Ophelia yelled at the players like it was life or death, and Alex spent half the time trying to get herself on the kiss cam. It wasn’t really about the game (except for Ophelia). It was about supporting each other’s

“Nope.” Gio plucks the phone right out of my hand. “No texting while watching the Titans get their asses handed to them.”

“Give me my phone back,” I say as calmly as possible.

Inside, I want to plant a fist square in his smug face. The memory of Abbu flickers in my mind—him snatching Ammi-ji’s phone out of my hands mid-Tetris game, not because he cared if I was playing, but because he wanted to make sure she wasn’t texting someone else. That acidic knot tightens in my gut, but I shove it down.

He arches a brow. “Will you focus on the game if I do?”

“Giovanni,” I say, jaw tightening, “my phone. Now.”

“Give him back his phone,” Saira intervenes. “The game hasn’t even started yet.”

His jaw tightens, then he holds my phone out like he’s doing me a favor. I snatch it back, gripping it tighter than necessary. “Jesus, man,” he mutters, throwing up a hand. “I was just playing.”

“It’s not nice,” Saira adds, crossing her legs and shooting him a glare that’s borderline playful rather than irritated. “What if I took your phone?”

That stupid grin returns, sliding onto his face like oil. He pulls his phone out of his pocket and offers it to her with a tilt of his head. “Just give it back with your number.”

Saira snorts, shoving his face to the side with one hand like swatting a fly.

She’s laughing. He’s laughing. And then there’s me, sitting in this godforsaken row of seats, pretending I don’t notice. Pretending I’m not watching this tiny flirtation unfold.

Gio’s got a wife. Kids in high school. He’s married to someone who sees him as a dependable husband, not . . . this. And Saira knows that. It’s not surprising that she has a way of brushing off the boundaries people cling to. It’s just disappointing.

Ignoring the two, I finish reading Zinneerah’s message.

Love of my life: I’ve been to a few at the arena. They served these chocolate pretzels in a cup that I ate. Ophelia yelled at the players like it was life or death, and Alex spent half the time trying to get herself on the kiss cam. It wasn’t really about the game (except for Ophelia). It was about supporting each other’s ridiculous hobbies, even if we didn’t give a single shit about men chasing a puck with sticks.

I chuckle to myself, fingers dancing over the keyboard. What I wouldn’t do to hear my wife curse in real time.

Me: You guys are different fonts writing the exact same story.

Saira nudges me with her elbow, pulling me back. She gestures toward the ice with a tilt of her chin, as if to say, Focus .

I sigh. As much as I hate to admit it, she’s got a point. This is an outing I committed to, isn’t it? The tickets, the seats, the awkward camaraderie—it’s all part of the package. I’ll talk to Zinneerah when I’m home, when my head’s quieter, when it’s just the two of us again.

Right now, it’s hockey. And my co-workers. Some of them, anyway.

I type out one last message.

Me: I’ll see you once I’m home. Enjoy your night. I’ll try to enjoy mine. Maybe I’ll get cotton candy. Who knows?

Thirty minutes pass in a blur.

The jumbo screens above the rink become the real show between breaks, pulling everyone’s attention away from the ice.

First, it’s the Kiss Cam, which is always a disaster. Two adults down the row awkwardly laugh when it lands on them, pretending they don’t know each other well enough for the crowd to start chanting, “Kiss! Kiss!” Eventually, the camera moves on, sparing them the embarrassment.

Next is the Dance Cam, zooming in on a teenage boy in a hoodie who looks like he wants to sink into the ground. His mom shoves him out of his seat, and the crowd roars when he finally gives in and starts flailing his arms like an inflatable tube man to some dubstep track.

Then comes Celebrity Lookalike Cam.

“Oh my God, Dave!” Jenna exclaims, choking on her nachos.

“What?” He looks up from his phone, blinking.

The screen splits, showing Dave on one side, and Alice Cooper on the other. The resemblance is uncanny—stringy black hair, a sharp jawline, even the same unhinged stare.

The crowd bursts out laughing, and Dave throws up his hands. “That’s not me!”

“It is you!” Jenna says, gasping for air between laughs. “I mean, look at that hair! You’re twins!”

Someone further down the row adds, “Where’s your guitar, man?”

Even I crack a smile, though I feel bad for the guy. He’s going to hear about this for the rest of his life.

Finally, the Mascot Showdown begins.

A big blue mascot with tusks stomps into the arena. The crowd goes wild as The Toronto Titan flexes his ridiculous foam muscles and jabs his fingers toward the opposing team’s bench, a challenge clear in his over-the-top movements.

Across the rink, the Detroit Dragons’ mascot—a hulking red dragon with golden spots—accepts the dare, stomping onto the ice to face off.

The jumbo screen flashes “DANCE BATTLE!” and the arena erupts with cheers.

The Titan mascot starts things off, shimmying his hips and throwing in some clumsy arm waves. The Dragon counters with an aggressive floss dance, its tail wagging behind it in perfect synchronization.

“Let’s fucking go, Titan!” Gio yells, pumping his fist in the air.

The Titan mascot attempts a worm but gets stuck halfway, his foam belly preventing him from finishing the move. The opposing crowd mocks him with laughter.

I just hope the man inside that costume is being paid well.

The dance-off escalates, both mascots shaking their butts and flailing their oversized limbs.

Finally, the Titan throws his arms up in exaggerated defeat, slumping dramatically onto the stairs. Our side cheers, egging him on with chants of “Titan! Titan!” while the opposing section erupts in victorious boos.

When does the actual game start?

“So, Raees,” Giovanni drawls. I glance at him, already bracing myself for whatever garbage is about to tumble out of his mouth. Saira left with Marcus to grab hot dogs. I should’ve gone with them, and locked myself in the bathroom stall until the game started. “How’s everything going with that newly-wed status of yours? Huh? You gonna introduce us to the lucky lady?”

I’ve learned not to give people like Giovanni anything to latch onto. If anything, Professor Holmes is the only one I confide in. But here we are. “It’s going great,” I say.

“Good, good.” Giovanni leans forward now, like he’s been waiting all night for this conversation. “You enjoying yourself?” His eyes flick toward Saira’s empty seat, and I already know I don’t want to hear what he’s about to say. “She’s been eye-fucking you since you sat down. Makes me jealous.” He gives my chest a friendly smack with the back of his hand. Again. “Relax, I’m just playing with you. Married, remember?”

I take a deep breath. Count to three in my head. The last time I let my temper slip, I ended up breaking my father’s nose. It took years of therapy to unlearn that instinct. But Giovanni? He’s pushing it. He’s really pushing it.

“That’s highly inappropriate, Giovanni,” I say, meeting his gaze dead-on. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t make those kinds of jokes with me.”

“Why the fuck are you so uptight? Jesus Christ, Raees.” Giovanni slouches lower in his seat, like I’m the one ruining his night. His feet kick up onto the empty chair in front of him, sneakers squeaking against the plastic. The chair belongs to an elderly woman who left with her grandson to grab food.

Real classy.

I narrow my eyes at him. “Can you put your feet down? There’s someone sitting there.”

“Yeah? Who?” He doesn’t even bother looking at me, his attention glued to his phone. Probably texting someone who isn’t his wife.

Before I can say anything else, Saira’s voice rings out. “I’m back!” she sing-songs, squeezing past my knees to slide back into her seat. She holds a tray with two hot dogs and a pile of nachos precariously balanced in her lap.

Giovanni’s entire demeanor shifts as soon as she sits down, like a dog catching sight of a steak.

He reaches over and snatches a nacho from her tray.

“Hey, that’s mine!” Saira whines.

Giovanni doesn’t even flinch. He grins and grabs a second nacho, popping it into his mouth.

Saira glares at him and turns the tray away, angling it toward me instead. “Nacho?” She holds it out like a peace offering.

“I’m fine, thank you.”

“You haven’t eaten anything,” she presses, plucking a chip coated in guacamole and holding it up like she’s about to feed me. “I can hear your stomach growling from here.”

“It’s fine,” I repeat, leaning back to put some space between me and the nacho. The last thing I need is Giovanni jumping in with some crass comment about her hand-feeding me.

Beside her, he lets out a bark of laughter. “Oh, that’s gotta hurt,” he says, gesturing at the screen above the rink. On it, the Kiss Cam has zeroed in on a couple. The man leans in for a kiss, but the woman slaps her hand over his mouth like she’s blocking a punch. The crowd erupts with laughter and groans. “If Nina did that to me, she’d be sleeping on the couch for a month.”

“I’m surprised she isn’t already,” Saira mutters under her breath, loud enough for both of us to hear.

I take the nacho she offered earlier and crunch into it, anything to distract myself from Giovanni’s ego-fueled commentary.

God, I am hungry. Maybe I’ll grab some chocolate pretzels or cotton candy, something to keep my brain occupied so I don’t spiral.

Just as I stand to make my escape, a shadow looms over me.

The Toronto Titan.

He blocks the aisle with his ridiculous blue body, wagging his massive furry finger at me like I’ve just been caught sneaking out of class.

Before I can even process it, his oversized paw lands heavily on my shoulder, pressing me back into my seat.

What the hell is going on?

I freeze, gripping the armrests instinctively, just as Jenna exclaims, “Raees, look! You’re on the screen!”

What?

I glance up at the giant screen above the rink, and my stomach plunges like I’ve just missed a step on a staircase.

The Kiss Cam. It’s on me.

It’s on me and Saira.

Fuck.

My heart slams against my ribs to escape. The arena’s noise—cheers, laughs, the occasional heckle—all collapses into an incessant throb in the back of my head. The only thing I can hear are my own laboured breaths, like I’ve just run a hundred miles.

“Kiss, kiss, kiss!” chants the damn Titan mascot, his furry hand still clamped on my shoulder.

This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening.

Saira shifts beside me, and I can feel every eye in the section locked on us. My face burns, their stares pressing down harder than the mascot’s hand.

“Hey, if you won’t take it, I will.” Giovanni’s hyena laughter isn’t helping the situation.

“I’m married.” I’m talking to the mascot, the mascot , which is officially the most absurd thing I’ve ever done. “Find someone else.”

The Titan just keeps pointing at the screen, motioning for me to stay put. His unrelenting hand pins me down, and my chest tightens. Why is he so hell-bent on me?

“Let go—” I start, my voice wobbling as I push against his arm. My breathing is too fast, my palms sweating against the armrests to the point they’re slipping. My brain is screaming, Everyone is watching! Everyone sees you!

I’m about four seconds away from a full-blown panic attack when Saira finally leans in. “It’s okay,” she whispers, like she’s talking to a cornered animal. “Just play along for a second.”

My entire body goes stiff as she presses her lips against my cheek in what feels like slow motion, the crowd erupting into cheers and wolf-whistles.

It’s over in an instant, but it feels like an eternity.

The Titan finally removes his paw from my shoulder, stepping back and raising his arms in victory, like he’s the hero of the night. The crowd cheers as the camera mercifully pans to another couple, and the pressure of the arena’s collective gaze finally disappears.

I shove Saira away as I stand, but my legs feel shaky, like they might buckle under me. “What is wrong with you?” The question jumps out louder than I expected. “How could you do such a thing in front of everyone?”

She has the audacity to be shocked.

Giovanni stands. “Relax, Shaan—”

“Fuck you, Giovanni!” The venomous sound cuts through the arena noise like a gunshot.

Heads turn. Conversations die mid-sentence. Phones lower. Eyes lock on me from every direction, like heat-seeking missiles.

The professors—the same people who know I’m married, the same ones who were clapping and cheering just seconds ago—are staring.

And then, one by one, they start looking away, down at their drinks, their snacks, the rink. Pretending like they weren’t just watching this train wreck.

But I know they saw. They all fucking saw. And they didn’t bother stopping it.

“Raees, I’m sorry,” Saira says quickly. “I didn’t mean—”

I don’t stick around to hear the rest of that sentence.