Chapter 10
ten
MIKE
“Uncomplicate things?” I raise an eyebrow.
At the same time, I mentally fight the highlight reel of complications my brain supplies: her naked in bed, the way she said my name that morning, how she looked at me before she knew I played hockey for her father, before I knew she was completely off-limits.
“To apologize for my poor choice of words.” Sophie’s lips curve into something that squeezes the air from my lungs, not quite a smile, but miles better than the disgust I expected.
“Though I stand by my decision that dating you would be a terrible idea, and warn you that if that’s your goal you’re wasting your time. ”
Nothing about Sophie feels like a waste of time—not the way she tilts her head when she’s thinking, not the careful distance she maintains between us, keeping me at arm’s length, not even this conversation where she’s basically friend-zoning me before we’ve even started.
“I can live with that,” I say, though the lie tastes bitter. “How about we start over?”
She nods and extends her hand, as formal as a business merger. “Hi, I’m Sophie. I hate hockey, but I promise there’s more to me than that.”
The touch of her palm against mine shouldn’t feel like victory, but I can’t help but grin. “Hi, I’m Mike. I play hockey, but I promise there’s more to me than that.”
She laughs, and I see the real smile that transforms her whole face. “I’m prepared to give you provisional friend status, despite that.”
“I’ll take it.” I lean against the bar, aiming for casual while my brain scrambles for ways to keep her here, keep her talking, keep her looking at me like I’m not the worst thing that’s happened to her this week.
“Maine wasn’t supposed to be butchering that song alone, by the way. My sister bailed…”
Sophie’s eyes widen. “Your sister is here? You couldn’t stop talking about her before we… well…”
Before we were naked. When you were under me. When you made those sounds that have been haunting me for weeks.
I rescue her from the sentence, pointing across the bar where Lea’s practically climbing into her phone screen trying to hear Declan. “It’s painful to witness.”
Sophie leans closer to peer through the crowd, and suddenly she’s in my space. Close enough that my fingers twitch with the urge to touch her, to trace the curve of her neck to find out if she makes that little gasp again when I caress her?—
Jesus. Get it together.
“She’s pretty,” Sophie says, pulling back to a safer distance that still isn’t nearly safe enough. “Why’d she bail on Maine?”
“Her boyfriend called.” I shrug, trying to ignore the phantom feel of her against me. “Maine’s heartfelt rendition came second.”
“Heartfelt is certainly one word for… whatever that was.”
Before I can finish the sentence, Maine walks over to us, face flushed, someone’s lipstick branded on his cheek. Two songs in, and he looks more wrecked than after suicide drills at practice, but if history is any guide, the show is just getting started.
“You guys missed the encore!” He smacks my shoulder. “My adoring fans demanded another song, but I exercised restraint…”
“Sure you did, buddy.”
He steamrolls past my sarcasm, zeroing in on Sophie with the single-minded focus he usually reserves for breakaways and beer. “You should come sit with us.”
Sophie’s whole body language shifts—shoulders drawing up, weight shifting back—into the same defensive posture I saw in the parking lot and in the locker room when her dad introduced her to us. But then she glances toward her table, where two women appear to be having a heated debate.
“Actually, what if we merged tables?” she says slowly. “My friends look ready to draw blood over song selection, and witnesses might prevent a murder charge.”
“Perfect!” Maine doesn’t wait for input, just grabs Sophie’s arm and hauls her away.
As Maine practically drags her off, I catch Sophie’s quick phone check—screen light washing her face pale for a second, her jaw tightening at whatever she sees. The expression vanishes so fast I almost miss it, replaced by that polite mask she wears like armor.
“Hey.” I slide into the seat beside her, close enough to notice the tension radiating from her shoulders. “Everything alright?”
Her eyes go wide, because kindness from me is apparently suspect. “Just family stuff, it’s fine.”
She says “fine” the way I told my old coach my ankle was “fine” while mentally calculating how many Advil I could take before organ failure. But before I can dig deeper, Maya and three other women descend on our table, and the dynamics shift instantly.
Maine becomes the gravitational center, like always, and Sophie retreats into herself, present but quiet while conversations flow around her. I’m trying to figure out how to draw her back out when disaster strikes in the form of a petite blonde with lash extensions that could qualify as weapons.
She slides into my other side, close enough that I can smell her perfume. “So you’re on the hockey team?”
“Yeah, defenseman.” I keep my tone friendly but flat, the verbal equivalent of a “No Vacancy” sign. “I’m Mike.”
“Mike? Captain, right?” Her hand lands on my forearm. “That must mean you’re incredibly good with your… stick.”
Christ. Did she seriously just ? —
“I’m adequate,” I say, deliberately dense.
“I seriously doubt that.” Her fingers trail up my arm.
Across the table Sophie’s entire body goes rigid, her knuckles white around her drink.
As I watch her, the blonde—who hasn’t bothered introducing herself—keeps talking, and Sophie’s jaw gets tighter with each giggle from the blonde.
She’s nodding at whatever Cooper’s saying, but her smile looks fake and painful.
This is going downhill faster than Maine’s singing prospects.
I’m twenty-two, supposedly mature, about to graduate, and probably headed to the NHL. And yet I’m sitting here watching the one girl I actually want to talk to pretend I don’t exist while someone else treats me like a piece of equipment to be tested out.
“So do you guys have, like, groupies?” The blonde leans closer, displaying cleavage that’s trying very hard to escape her top.
“We’re Division I hockey, not Metallica,” I say. “Though some people follow the team, if that counts.”
“I could see myself as a hockey fan.” Her hand migrates from my arm to my thigh, and I shift away so fast I nearly fall off my chair.
Across the table, Sophie takes a long pull from her drink, staring at the karaoke stage with laser focus. I need to fix this. Now. So, as the middle-aged woman on stage finishes up “Love is a Battlefield” to scattered applause, suddenly I know exactly what to do.
“Excuse me.” I stand abruptly enough that the blonde has to catch herself on the table. “I have to go make a fool of myself.”
“Now?”
“Can’t wait. Time-sensitive foolishness.”
I’m already walking away when Kellerman’s snort follows me, but I don’t care.
I scroll through the song list until I find the perfect choice: “Happy” by Pharrell.
It’s impossible to look cool singing it, which is exactly the point, and it might be the antidote to the poison the blonde injected into Sophie and my… whatever it is.
The opening beats start and I grab the mic with confidence that’s ninety percent fake and ten percent desperation. My singing voice is what you’d generously call “shower quality,” but I launch into it with all the enthusiasm I can muster.
By the chorus, I’m bouncing around the stage having what can only be described as a full-body seizure, throwing in moves I definitely didn’t learn in dance class because Kevin would never endorse whatever the hell my legs are doing right now.
The crowd gets into it, but I only care about one reaction.
Sophie’s.
She’s at our table with her hand pressed over her mouth, eyes huge.
But that’s not enough for me.
So I attempt something that might charitably be called a moonwalk but probably looks more like I’m trying to scrape gum off my shoe, and she breaks. Doubles over, shoulders shaking, not the polite laughter from before but the real thing, helpless and gorgeous.
Victory burns hot in my veins. I did that. I made her laugh like that.
The song ends with me attempting a spin that nearly sends me into the speakers. The bar explodes in applause—pity applause, but I’ll take it—and when I get back to the table, I discover the blonde has migrated to Kellerman, who looks both thrilled and terrified.
“That was the most pathetic thing I’ve ever witnessed,” Maine announces cheerfully.
“Where did you learn to dance like that?” Sophie asks, still wiping tears from her eyes, and God, she’s beautiful when she’s not trying to be careful.
“That masterpiece was courtesy of six weeks of freeform dance classes.”
“Freeform dance?” Her eyebrows climb. “Is that even a real thing?”
“Oh, it’s real. The instructor would tell us to ‘let our bodies speak their truth’ and ‘commune with the rhythm of the cosmos.’”
“And your cosmic rhythm told you to have a full-body spasm?”
I shake my head. “No, that was all Kevin’s encouragement, at least until I knocked over a potted plant trying to ‘channel my inner tempest.’”
Sophie’s laugh is smaller this time but genuine. “And you kept going back?”
“For six weeks of pure humiliation.”
“Even though you were terrible?”
“Especially because I was terrible.” I take a sip of beer, studying her face. “That’s the whole point… doing things where being bad doesn’t matter.”
Sophie leans forward slightly. “Is this some elaborate performance? Like, ‘I’m so great at hockey that I need to suck at everything else for balance?’”
“No.” I hold her gaze, letting her see I’m serious. “And that wouldn’t work on you anyway since you hate hockey players.”