Chapter 10 #2
Something shifts in her expression, a crack in the armor.
“I don’t hate players, exactly. I just…” She takes a breath.
“My whole life, guys pretend to like me when they really just want an in with my dad. Do you know how exhausting it is, wondering if someone actually sees you or just sees a potential connection?”
The words land somewhere deep. “Their loss,” I say quietly. “Your dad’s great, but you’re definitely the main event.”
The air between us changes, charges, every molecule suddenly aware of the shrinking distance. Around us, the bar keeps being loud and chaotic—Maine’s telling some story that involves a fire extinguisher and a bet gone wrong—but Sophie and I might as well be in a different universe.
“Are you flirting with me?” Her voice drops low enough that I have to lean in to hear her.
“No,” I say, not breaking eye contact. “I can’t be. You don’t date complicated hockey players, remember?”
Her gaze drops to my mouth for a heartbeat, quick, but I catch it. The want that flashes across her face before she can hide it sends heat straight through me. We’re both leaning in, the space between us shrinking, and my heart’s hammering so hard she must be able to hear it?—
“Mike!”
Andy’s voice cuts through the moment. Sophie jerks back fast enough to give herself whiplash, and I want to ban my sister from every family event for the next decade. Finally, a moment where Sophie was opening up to me, just a fraction, and… Argh!
“Who’s this?” Andy asks, looking at Sophie with the kind of interest that means she’s already planning our wedding.
“This is Sophie,” I manage, trying not to sound as frustrated as I feel. “Sophie, this is my sister, Andy.”
Recognition dawns on Andy’s face. “Oh! You’re the girl from dinner!”
Sophie’s entire demeanor changes, her walls slamming back up. “Dinner?”
“Yeah, Mike was telling me about?—”
“Just running into you the other day,” I cut in, shooting Andy a look.
Andy, oblivious to the danger she’s in, beams. “It’s so nice to finally meet you!”
Pink floods Sophie’s cheeks. She glances at me, something unreadable crossing her features before that perfect polite smile clicks into place—the same one she gave Cooper, the same one she probably gives everyone she wants to keep at arm’s-length.
And we’re back to square one.
“It’s nice to meet you too,” Sophie says, turning to Andy with warmth that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Mike mentioned you study art?”
Just like that, she redirects the entire conversation, drawing Andy out about her classes, her professor, the boyfriend in Paris she misses desperately. I realize now that Sophie’s good at this, making everyone else the star while she fades into the background, present but protected.
The organizer, the facilitator.
But I see through it now. The slight tension in her neck.
The way she’s angled her body just enough that she’s not quite facing me.
How her laugh at Andy’s jokes is a beat too quick, and a second too long.
And while she does it, she’s so busy making sure everyone else is OK, she’s invisible to them.
Her friends are lost in their own drama. Andy’s chattering away, thrilled to have a new audience. But I see her. I see the exhaustion she’s hiding, the way she keeps her phone close like she’s waiting for bad news, the careful distance she maintains even while being friendly.
“Yo, Mike!” Cooper waves a hand in front of my face.
“Sorry, what?” I turn to him, realizing he’s been trying to get my attention.
“Schmidt’s party tomorrow night. You coming?”
“Can’t.”
The table has emptied while I wasn’t paying attention. Maya’s friends vanished at some point. Kellerman disappeared with the blonde. Most of the team has scattered to chase their own entertainment, leaving just Andy, Sophie, Maya, Maine, and me.
Maine pushes himself up from the table with dramatic flair. “Well, children, it’s been educational watching Mike’s complete inability to?—”
I nail him in the shin under the table, hard enough that he’ll have a bruise tomorrow.
“—to hit those high notes in ‘Happy,’” Maine recovers, rubbing his leg. “By the way, what’s your next attempt at voluntary humiliation?”
I hesitate. The truth—that I’ve signed up for an open-mic poetry night—is basically handing him ammunition for the next decade, when he’s already got an entire truckload of material to use against me since I started my ‘try new things’ campaign.
“Open-mic night,” I say anyway, because apparently I’m incapable of lying to save my dignity.
Maine’s face lights up. “Stand-up comedy? Because watching you bomb at that might actually kill me. I’d die happy.”
“Poetry, actually.”
The silence that follows is beautiful. Maine stares at me like I’ve announced I’m joining the priesthood.
“Poetry?” he finally manages. “Like ‘roses are red, violets are blue, I suck at everything, someone please love me too?’”
Heat crawls up my neck. “The therapist said?—”
“To try things you’re bad at, yeah, we get it.” Maine claps my shoulder. “You’re going to be spectacularly terrible. I’m so proud.”
Sophie, who’s been having a sidebar with Andy, suddenly turns to me. The polite mask slips, replaced by genuine curiosity. “You write poetry?”
“God, no. I can barely write my name legibly,” I admit. “I’m just going to read other people’s stuff. Probably badly. Definitely awkwardly.”
“That’s actually brave,” she says, and there’s no mockery in it, no careful distance. “Most people run from things they know they’ll fail at.”
I realize she’s looking at me like she did that first night—curious, interested, present. I’m about to respond when Maine announces he’s leaving to “pursue other entertainment options,” which knowing him could mean anything from more karaoke to trying to start a conga line.
Maya checks her phone and asks Sophie if she wants to share an Uber. Sophie hesitates, glancing at me before saying she’ll stay a few more minutes. Maya gives her a knowing look and a thumbs-up before heading out, which makes Sophie blush.
Andy makes her own excuses about needing to call Declan back, though not before giving me a thumbs-up behind Sophie’s back that’s about as subtle as a hockey fight. And then it’s just us, the bar winding down around us, and I’m desperately trying to think of ways to keep this going.
Because I can’t let her disappear again.
“Next Thursday at Grounds for Thought,” I say. “If you want to watch me crash and burn in person. Though honestly, you’re not missing much if you skip it.”
The invitation hangs between us. I watch her process it—telling herself this isn’t a date, because she totally told me that’s off limits, which means it’s totally casual and completely meaningless.
“Sure,” she finally says.
I blink. “What?”
“I said sure.” A real smile spreads across her face. “It sounds entertaining.”
“Careful,” I warn, fighting my own grin. “I might accidentally be good at it.”
Her smile turns into something softer. “I know you’re good, Mike.”
The words land between us, combustible, just waiting for a spark to ignite. For a second, neither of us moves, both remembering exactly what I’m good at, what we’re good at together. Then Sophie blinks, color flooding her cheeks as she realizes what she just said.
“I should go,” she says quickly, gathering her things.
“Sophie—”
“Thursday,” she confirms, already backing away. “I’ll be there.”
She sets the land-speed record, and is gone before I can respond, leaving me sitting alone with the ghost of her perfume and the memory of that almost-kiss. My phone buzzes—a text from Maine consisting entirely of eggplant emojis—but I ignore it.
Thursday can’t come fast enough.