Chapter 18
ELIJAH
The bass throbs through the floor of Midnight Lagoon, vibrating up through my shoes and settling somewhere between my ribs. Colored lights slice through artificial fog, painting everyone's skin in electric blues and purples before bleeding into red.
It's Reese's birthday, and the guy insisted on dragging us all out to "celebrate properly," which apparently means the fanciest club in downtown Miami and a VIP section that probably cost more than my monthly allowance.
After missing two games and becoming practically a hermit in my dorm room—with nothing but regrets and her face spinning through my head—I needed this. A night to forget, to lose myself in noise and alcohol and maybe, if luck swings my way, in someone else's bed.
I lean against the railing of the second-floor VIP area, surveying the pulsing crowd below. From up here, the dance floor looks like a living organism—a mass of bodies moving as one to the thundering music.
"Dude, this place is fucking insane!" Reese shouts over the music, clapping me on the shoulder hard enough to make me spill my beer. His face is already flushed, eyes glazed with the four shots he knocked back before we even left campus. "Best birthday ever!"
I force a grin.
"Yeah, man. Happy birthday." I clink my bottle against his glass, and he disappears back into our VIP section, throwing himself onto one of the sleek leather couches.
Most of the team is already scattered around the club. Half of them hit the dance floor the minute we arrived. I spot Cody and Luke, each with a girl perched on their laps, whispering things that make the girls throw their heads back with laughter that can't possibly be genuine.
And then there's Kentaro, our broody goalie, sitting alone in the darkest corner of our section. He nurses his beer with the same intensity he brings to blocking shots—like it's the only thing that matters in the universe. A brunette with nice curves slides up next to him, leaning in close enough that her cleavage is practically in his face.
Kentaro doesn't even look up. Just fixes her with that dead-eyed stare and she backs away so fast she nearly trips on her heels.
I can't help but chuckle.
"What's so funny?" Liam appears beside me, two fresh beers in hand. He passes one to me, condensation cool against my palm.
"Kentaro just scared off another one." I nod toward our goalie. "Guy could be surrounded by Victoria's Secret models and would still look like he's calculating save percentages in his head."
"That's why he's the best goalie in the league," Liam says, taking a pull from his beer. "Tunnel vision." His head starts bobbing to the beat, shoulders moving slightly. He points down to the dance floor. "You should get down there, man. Whole point of coming out was to get you out of that funk you've been in."
I snort. "Yeah, right."
"I'm serious." He trails off, knowing better than to actually say her name. "You need to get back out there and dance."
"Like when have you ever seen me dance?" I ask, gesturing at the writhing bodies below.
"Never," he admits.
"Yep, never. Dancing is for the guys who can't score any other way." I take a long swallow of my beer, the cold liquid a stark contrast to the humid heat of the club.
Liam laughs, "Alright, fair enough. But me? I'm gonna dance all night and fuck even longer." He stretches the word "fuck" into two syllables, wiggling his eyebrows. "Seriously, I got a whole schedule planned—get wasted, grind on some hotties, take one back to the dorm, maybe two if I'm feeling ambitious. Gotta make up for your sorry ass sitting up here all night."
"You're a true philanthropist," I deadpan. "Your dick's basically a public service at this point."
"Damn straight it is," he fires back, not missing a beat. "And the public is fucking grateful." He drains the last of his beer and slams the bottle down. "Catch you later, loser. Some of us have lives to live."
I watch him take the stairs two at a time, weaving through the crowd with the same agility he shows on the ice. The effect is immediate—like he's surrounded by some invisible force field that attracts women instead of repelling them. Within seconds, he's engulfed by a small crowd of them, each trying to get closer than the last. He looks up at me with that shit-eating grin of his, then pulls a blonde against him. Her ass starts grinding against his crotch in a way that's basically vertical sex with clothes on.
I shake my head and avert my eyes, scanning another section of the dance floor as I take another swig of beer. The cold bottle is a relief against my palm, now slick with sweat from the club's heat.
And that's when I see her.
She moves as if the music was made for her alone. In a deep- red dress that clings to every curve and flares into liquid fire with each spin, she owns the pulsing lights. Thin straps crisscross her back, exposing smooth skin that begs to be touched.
I don't need to see her face; her body says it all. She dances with friends, but I only see her. Her hands rise over her head, drift through her hair, down her neck and breasts, teasing my dry throat. She laughs, and the skirt lifts just enough to show more thigh than I can handle sober.
I tell myself that noticing a woman who looks like that isn't a crime—who moves like she knows exactly what kind of effect she has. Hell, not appreciating it would be the real offense. Isn't this exactly why I let the guys drag me out tonight? To forget everything else for one damn night?
I imagine sliding my hands to her hips, whispering in her ear as she presses back against me in a dark corner where anyone could see us but no one would stop us. I imagine peeling that dress off her, tracing each inch. I picture her in my bed, hair splayed across my pillow, that same rhythm she's dancing with translating into something much more intimate.
She arches her back, hair falling around her neck, and I tighten my grip on the beer, never taking my eyes off her.
I finish my beer in one long pull and set the bottle down on a nearby table. The alcohol hums in my veins now, not enough to impair but just enough to embolden. I don't dance. Never have. But there's always a first time, right?
"Fuck it."
I keep my eyes locked on her the whole way down, already rehearsing what I'll say, already grinning like an idiot who thinks he's about to get laid. The crowd parts easier for me than most—one of the few advantages of being hockey-player sized in a space like this.
I'm halfway to her when the lights shift again—a strobe effect that breaks movement into fragments. She turns, laughing at something one of her friends has said, hair falling back from her face. And my grin dies instantly on my lips.
It's not just some random hot girl.
It's her. My best friend's sister.
The same girl I've been avoiding for days. The same girl I kissed few nights ago and haven't been able to stop thinking about since. The same girl I keep telling myself I don't want, shouldn't want—all of which didn't stop me from imagining peeling that red dress off her body just moments ago.
Those familiar silver-gray eyes—the ones I've known since we were kids—now glow under the club lights like something otherworldly. And for a horrifying second, I think she might have spotted me too.
I stop dead in my tracks, heart hammering against my ribs like it's trying to escape, staring at the living nightmare I apparently walked straight into. Of all the women in this club. Of all the goddamn nights. It had to be her.
"Fuck," I breathe, already backing away, suddenly desperate to disappear into the crowd before she sees me. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."
*****
SAM
My art piece is finally finished.
Finished-finished. Signed, wrapped, delivered—sent off to the Callaway Hope Foundation this morning with a shaking hand and a ridiculous amount of pride. Next month, it'll be hanging in a gallery, helping fund cancer patients and survivors. Eight-year-old me would've cried. Present-day me almost did.
So tonight, I'm celebrating.
I'm feeling the sweat bead on my neck as Willow, Ana, and I claim our territory on the dance floor of Midnight Lagoon. I twirl, feeling the red fabric of my dress swish against my thighs.
I catch a few guys at the edge of the dance floor staring, and I don't hate it. One starts to move toward me, a practiced smile already spreading across his face.
"Sorry, not tonight," I tell him before he can even speak, offering a smile sweet enough to soften the rejection.
"Your loss," he says with a wink that suggests he doesn't really believe it.
"Doubtful," I mutter as he walks away.
Willow slides up next to me. "That's the third guy you've turned down. You know, for someone who's here to have fun, you're being awfully selective."
"I'm saving my dance card for someone specific," I say, scanning the club for what must be the fifteenth time in the last hour.
"Let me guess... tall, broody, always wearing a scowl on his face when he looks at you?" Willow raises an eyebrow.
"He does not look like—okay, sometimes he does," I concede, laughing.
"Your brother texted that they're on their way like an hour ago," Ana reminds me.
"I know," I sigh dramatically. "And I'm being totally chill about it."
"Oh, super chill," Willow snorts. "Like a volcano before eruption."
I nudge her with my elbow. "Shut up and dance with me."
An hour later, after resting our feet and pretending to hydrate like responsible adults—mocktails and water for me, something stronger for Willow and Ana—we drift back onto the dance floor. That's when I see them. The hockey team has arrived, all swagger and inside jokes, commandeering the VIP section upstairs.
And there he is. My Eli, in all his glory, leaning against the railing, a beer bottle dangling from his fingers.
My heart somersaults.
Act natural, Sam. You're just a girl, standing in a club, trying not to look like you've been waiting for days to see a boy who's actively avoiding you.
I start dancing with renewed enthusiasm, channeling my inner Beyoncé. I catch Eli looking—at least I think he's looking. The lights are a blinding mess, but I swear I can feel his eyes on me.
I flip my hair, letting it cascade down my back, and move my hips in a way that I hope appears effortlessly seductive rather than like I'm having a minor seizure. I keep glancing up, waiting for him to make his way down to the dance floor.
Five minutes pass. Ten.
When I look up again, he's gone. Of freaking course!
I scan the club, my eyes narrowing as they lock onto the bar. There's Eli, perched on a bar stool, leaning slightly toward a girl with bleach-blonde hair styled in loose beach waves. Her silver dress is basically just an ambitious tank top, and her legs are so long she probably has to fold herself like origami to fit in a bathtub.
I squeeze my eyes shut and inhale deeply, trying to center myself before I do something stupid.
Count to ten, Samantha. One... two... nope, screw it.
I tuck a sweaty strand of hair behind my ear and bulldoze through the crowd, bouncing off sweaty bodies like the world's most determined pinball.
"Hey, Eli..." I drawl, wrapping my fingers possessively around his arm and infusing my voice with sweetness that would give a dentist nightmares.
Eli sighs. He takes a swig of his drink without looking at me.
The blonde bounces her gaze between us, her eyes fixating on my death-grip on Eli's arm.
"Hey, I'm Candice. And you are?" she asks, flashing me a hesitant smile that shows too-perfect teeth.
"There's no need for pleasantries," I say, my voice dripping with faux politeness. "But if you're here trying to flirt with this man right here, I'm sorry, but he's taken..."
Candice looks like I've just told her Santa isn't real. Her smile falters, and she glances at Eli for confirmation. His face is locked in a scowl that could curdle milk.
"B...by you?" Candice asks, looking between us.
I giggle, the sound high and artificial. "No. By his inability to commit."
Candice's face brightens. "Oh, it's okay... I'm not easily turned off by it since I'm not into commitment either."
"Oh, too bad," I say, shaking my head sympathetically. "Because I'm not turned off by it either... and that is why we're engaged."
"But... didn't you say he's—"
"I've never asked you to marry me," Eli cuts in unhelpfully, giving me a glare sharp enough to draw blood.
"Oh, that's okay, babe," I say cheerfully. "You didn't need to ask. I saw it in your eyes."
Eli looks like he's contemplating homicide.
I pull out my phone and show Candice my lock screen. "See this? That's me and my fiancé." I point my thumb at Eli. "So, off you go. Find someone else."
My smile disappears, replaced by an expression I've been told makes grown men reconsider their life choices. "Go, while I'm still being nice."
Candice looks between us one more time before scurrying away, her face flushed with embarrassment.
"Why do you keep doing this?" Eli snarls the moment she's gone. "Do you get off on ruining my night?"
I slide into the space Candice vacated, facing him directly. "I'm only taking out potential hazards in your life, Eli. Those types of girls aren't good for you."
"And you're not one?" he scoffs, the words hitting me like small, precise darts. "If they're potential hazards, you are definitely a hazard for me. Because you're always giving me a headache, you drive me crazy all the time because you keep forcing things that aren't there.. God, I'm so sick of having this conversation with you."
Ouch. Tell me how you really feel, why don't you?
I push down the sting and lean in closer. "Then let's not talk about it. Talking is boring, Eli. We're at the club. So, how about you just dance with me instead?"
"God, you're incorrigible!"
"Seriously, why do you keep looking for someone else when I'm right here?" I press on, because apparently I enjoy emotional self-flagellation.
He fixes me with a flat stare. "Because I don't like you. Get it through your head already."
"Oh, Eli, can you stop lying through your teeth? I saw how you looked at me earlier, how you almost drooled staring at me."
"What? When the hell did I do that?"
"When I was dancing... didn't think I've caught you looking, did you?"
He shifts on his stool. "Fine! For a second I thought you... you were ho—" He catches himself. "You looked fine... And then I realized it was you. And whatever that was? Gone. Immediately. So there... happy? It was just a temporary lapse of judgment."
"Oh, like that night you kissed me? It was a temporary lapse of judgment too?"
There. I've finally said it. I've been dying to bring it up, to make sense of it, but he's been harder to pin down than a greased pig at a county fair.
I get it. The kiss probably sent his mind spiraling. Poor baby, having to deal with conflicted feelings. That's why I gave him space instead of bombarding him with questions. See how considerate I am? But now, I'm determined to make him admit there was something real there.
He's stubborn, but I'm stubborner. Is that a word? Doesn't matter. I'm inventing it just for this moment.
His eyes meet mine, and for a second—just a fleeting second—I think I see something genuine. Something vulnerable. I look at him pleadingly, silently begging him to tell me that no, it wasn't a lapse of judgment, that he really wanted to kiss me because even if it's hard to admit, he's starting to feel something for me too.
"Yes, that's right," he says flatly. "It was just a temporary lapse of judgment. I was drunk, and it didn't mean anything."
Don't cry. Do. Not. Cry.
"If you call it a lapse of judgment, I'd call it attraction on some level," I counter. "You are attracted to me, Eli, no matter how many times you deny it. And that's fine by me... because I know sooner or later, that attraction will turn into love. It might take a while since you keep fighting it, but I'm a very patient woman, Eli. I've been waiting for you for ten years. What's a few more weeks or months?"
"God, you are delusional!"
"Can you just be honest with me for once?" My voice softens despite myself. "Tell me it wasn't just my imagination—that you felt something too when you kissed me that night."
"No, I didn't." The words come without hesitation, cutting through me like a knife. "I didn't feel anything at all."
"You're lying," I whisper. "I know you felt it too. I know you did."
His mouth quirks up into that mocking smirk as he shakes his head. "You asked me to be honest, Sam, and I am. That kiss, it was just like any other girls that I kissed before."
He's about to take another sip of his drink when he pauses. For a moment, hope flutters in my chest like a trapped bird. Hope—that dangerous, persistent thing that keeps me coming back for more punishment. Hope that whispers maybe when all evidence screams absolutely not.
"Now that I think more about it," he continues, his expression cold, "that kiss with you was probably the worst I've ever had. I didn't say anything because I didn't want to hurt your feelings—but since you're so determined to know how I felt, here it is.... you were a lousy kisser, Sam. You should probably learn how to do it properly. I'd hate for the next guy you kiss to suffer—or for you to embarrass yourself."
The words slam into me like a physical blow. My cheeks burn hot with humiliation. That kiss with you was the worst I ever had. You were a lousy kisser, Sam.
What hurts the most isn't just his words, but the casual way he delivers them—like my feelings are so insignificant they don't even register as something that could be damaged.
Tears prick at my eyes, but thankfully the dim lights of the club provide enough cover to hide the evidence of my wounded heart. I lower my head while I try to compose myself.
I rake my fingers through the long strands and tilt my chin up. "Well, thanks for the feedback. I'll go find someone else to practice with then."
I don't miss how his jaw clenches at my words. Interesting.
"So if you ever have another lapse of judgment and kiss me again, I'll be better at it. And you'll be the one begging for more." I continue, doubling down. "You know me, I always aim to please you."
I snatch his beer and take a deliberate sip, letting my tongue trace a slow path across my bottom lip as I hand it back. Eli's gaze drops instantly. The green in his irises darkens, swallowed by widening pupils as he watches my mouth with such raw hunger that I can practically feel the heat of his gaze like fingertips against my skin.
And for a split second, he looks exactly like he did that night—right before he kissed me. His eyes lock onto mine with an intensity that burns. Like he's mentally calculating the exact pressure and angle needed to make my lips part beneath his again.
"Lousy kisser," he'd said.
So why is he staring at my mouth like he wants another taste?
I can't stop the smirk that curves at the corner of my mouth. Stubborn man.