Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Valentina
Trivia Night: The First Face off
Tonight was supposed to be simple—a date with myself. I planned on a warm latte, a cookie I didn’t have to share, and the quiet comfort of my own company. That was the plan. A small indulgence to remind myself that being alone isn’t the same as being lonely.
But then Trivia Night happened.
I should’ve walked out the moment I saw the chalkboard sign: Prove Your Smarts—Trivia Starts at Seven. It would’ve been so easy. Instead, I made the mistake of thinking, how bad could it be? A few harmless questions, some background chatter, and I’d still have my evening of solitude.
KC. Annoying, handsome, and infuriatingly self-assured.
And what does KC stand for, anyway? King of Confidence? Know-it-all Champion? Kinda Cute but Definitely Annoying? The possibilities are endless—and equally aggravating.
He just had a very heated, very stupid debate with the barista and now . . . Now he’s sitting next to me, effortlessly shattering my plans for a quiet night. He’s wearing a baseball cap that does absolutely nothing to hide how thick and dark his hair is, curling slightly at the ends.
His broad shoulders fill the tiny coffee shop chair to the point where I’m half-convinced it’s going to collapse under him, and his glasses—black frames, classic but undeniably cool—rest on the bridge of a nose that looks like it’s been broken once or twice. The effect is devastating. Like, he shouldn’t be allowed out in public devastating. Those glasses add a certain nerdy charm to the defined angles of his face, making him the kind of attractive that’s both irritating and distracting in equal measure.
If I weren’t on a man embargo, recovering from the disaster that was my divorce, I’d be staring at him like a kid in a candy shop. Even hoping I could lick him. Hell, maybe I am, because every time I look at him, my resolve wavers just a little more. There’s something captivating about a man who looks like he belongs on the cover of a lifestyle magazine.
The host’s voice booms through the coffee shop, cutting through the hum of chatter: “First question. What’s the capital of Australia?”
Instead of raising my hand and shouting my answer, I choose to scribble the answers. Though, I barely have time to pick up my pen before KC leans over, radiating the kind of easy confidence that’s downright maddening.
“Canberra,” he says, tapping the trivia sheet in front of me like it’s a lifeline. “Too easy . . . unless you don’t know, of course.”
I shoot him a look but write it down anyway. “Thanks for the unsolicited geography lesson,” I say, deadpan. “I’m good.”
He grins, unapologetic. “Careful. Most people think it’s Sydney or Brisbane.”
Settled back in his chair, he looks far too pleased with himself. I try not to let my gaze linger on the way his smirk lights up his face—or the way his stupid baseball cap somehow makes him even more distractingly attractive. The last thing I need tonight is a complication, no matter how infuriatingly charming it might be.
“Next question,” the host calls. “Who painted the Sistine Chapel?”
“Michelangelo,” I mutter under my breath, writing it down.
But KC, of course, can’t leave it there. “Bet you didn’t know he hated painting,” he says, leaning in closer. I can feel the heat radiating off him, the space between us shrinking. “Wanted to stick to sculpting. But the Pope? He had other plans.”
I glance up, narrowing my eyes. “Did the Pope also ask you to be this annoying?”
His laugh—low, warm, and way too distracting—sends a ripple of irritation through me. Why does it have to sound so good?
“Touché,” he says, holding his hands up in mock surrender, his smirk somehow managing to widen. “I’ll back off. For now.”
Rolling my eyes, I focus on the next question, pretending his chuckle didn’t hit me somewhere it absolutely shouldn’t. The host’s voice fills the air again, but my mind is stuck replaying the sound of his laugh.
“If you’re ready for the next one,” the host says, drawing out the suspense, “what is the smallest planet in the solar system?”
“Pluto,” I write confidently, only to see KC shaking his head beside me.
“Mercury,” he says smugly, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Pluto doesn’t even make the cut anymore.”
I grit my teeth and cross out Pluto, probably harder than I need to. “Do you ever get tired of being right?”
“Not really,” he says with a shrug. “But I don’t mind sharing the spotlight. You’re holding your own, Trivia Queen.”
The nickname catches me off guard, and I pause, my pen hovering over the page. I swallow against the warmth rising in my chest, trying to ignore the flutter it sends through me.
I didn’t come here for this. Not to spar with a stranger, or to feel the subtle pull of his stupid smile. But somehow, he’s managed to turn Trivia Night into something more than just a game, and I’m not sure I hate it.
The next question booms through the shop: “Who holds the record for the most goals in a single NHL game?”
“Mathieu Scott Laferty,” KC fires back without hesitation, not even giving me a chance to pick up my pen. He says it so quickly and with such conviction, you’d think his entire existence hinged on this one answer. “If you don’t know that, what’s the point of living?”
I blink at him, my pen hovering midair. The truth? I don’t know a thing about hockey—or sports in general. I probably should, considering my brother-in-law is a sports agent and I work at a PR company that handles some of his clients. But my role leans more toward crisis management—coming up with ideas to clean up someone’s image, writing press releases, and crafting PR campaigns—than memorizing stats about their on-field or on-ice accomplishments.
“Wow. That’s . . . an impressive level of passion for hockey trivia,” I say finally, opting for diplomacy over the more tempting, Is your job to collect every random fact like a walking encyclopedia? His smirk tells me he wouldn’t take the hint, anyway.
KC shifts closer, his gaze so intense it almost makes me squirm. “It’s not trivia,” he says, his voice low and unwavering, his steely eyes locking onto mine. “It’s essential knowledge. Like knowing how to breathe.”
I stare at him for a beat, unsure whether to laugh or run. “Well, good to know you’ve got your priorities straight.”
“Damn right I do,” he states. “Dad would disown me if I didn’t know that answer. It’s basically a family creed.”
That’s so ridiculous, I huff out a laugh despite myself. And for the first time tonight, I wonder if I might actually enjoy this stupid game and his company.
That thought feels dangerous, though—like stepping out onto thin ice, testing if it’ll hold. I remind myself why I came here in the first place. Solitude feels safe. Being alone means no one gets close enough to hurt you. No one gets the chance to walk away.
But then KC shifts in his chair, tossing out another fact with a casual ease that’s both maddening and, somehow, unexpectedly magnetic. For reasons I don’t entirely understand, the space between us suddenly doesn’t feel so bad.
The host announces the final question: “In Greek mythology, who is the goddess of victory?”
The answer comes to me instantly. Nike. I write it down and glance at KC. He’s already done, his pen spinning lazily between his fingers like this is all just a warm-up for him.
“Victory,” he says, his voice softer now, almost reflective. “She’s got a hell of a name, doesn’t she? Nike. Just do it. No, scratch that—she’d probably say, ‘Get it fucking done.’”
I arch a brow, unable to stop the smirk tugging at my lips. “What, you think she moonlights as a motivational speaker? ‘Don’t try, just fucking do it’?”
He grins, confident and self-assured. “If she does, I’d take notes. Winning isn’t a burden—it’s the whole point. Guess you could say it’s in my blood.”
Of course it is. Somehow, I can’t decide if I want to roll my eyes at his ego or let him teach me how to channel that kind of unshakable confidence. Maybe both.
“What?” His tone shifts slightly, catching me off guard, and I glance up at him.
“Makes you wonder how often she actually got to enjoy it.” I pause, staring at him, trying to figure out what angle he’s working. But there’s no smirk now, no teasing glint in his eye. Just something quieter, almost vulnerable, that makes my chest tighten in a way I don’t fully understand.
“What if victory’s not all it’s cracked up to be?” I ask lightly.
KC’s gaze lingers on me before saying, “It is everything.”
The host rattles off the scores, but it’s all background noise. My trivia sheet is graded, the game’s over, but the tension between KC and me? That’s still hanging in the air, stubborn and electric. It’s like the atmosphere crackles with . . . something. Something I can’t quite name, but whatever it is, it’s making my pulse race and my brain short-circuit.
Is this the part where we exchange numbers, head to a hotel, and have one of those reckless, steamy one-night stands that changes everything? Or do we just walk out of here, pretending the sparks weren’t real and this was just another random Trivia Night?
God, I need to stop watching so many rom-coms.
Next thing you know, I’ll be picturing us running through an airport in slow motion, my hair miraculously frizz-free, while he dramatically declares that trivia brought us together and nothing can tear us apart. Because trivia is love. Trivia is life.
I need help. Or maybe just fewer nights with Netflix and wine as my only companions.
But then KC shifts in his chair and the corner of his mouth quirks into that arrogant smirk.
And just like that, I remind myself that alone is the best state of mind.
“Good game, Trivia Queen,” he says as I gather my things, his voice carrying just enough of that cocky edge to make it impossible not to smirk back. “Worth using my night off for this.”
He winks, the gesture so effortless it feels like he’s been perfecting it his entire life.
I hesitate, glancing up at him. “Thanks?” The word ends up like a question and I’m not entirely sure why.
Maybe because, for all his irritating confidence, he’s somehow managed to make me feel like I didn’t just hold my own—I might’ve actually won something tonight.
And that’s not supposed to happen. Not to me. Not after my divorce ripped every romantic bone out of my body and left me swearing off men like they were overpriced jeans. They over promise and never deliver. This is why I put myself on a strict man embargo months ago—no flirting, no dating, no weak knees caused by ridiculous smirks. Love is a lie, a glitter-covered scam sold to fools who don’t realize it always comes with fine print.
But as I head for the door, his eyes linger on me, and for a split second, I wonder if maybe—maybe—I’ve gotten it all wrong. Maybe not everything is fake. Maybe not everything falls apart.
I shake the thought off the second the cool night air hits my face.
I came here for a quiet date with myself. No distractions, no complications. Yet somehow, I walked away with a question I can’t stop turning over in my mind: was this the end of the game—or just the beginning of something I swore I’d never believe in again?