Chapter 9 Collin
COLLIN
Bass vibrates through the floorboards as I lean against the bar, watching my thumb worry the edge of the beer label until it starts to curl.
The Saturday night crowd moves in waves around me, all perfume and body heat, everyone bathed in the blue neon glowing behind the bar.
I haven’t checked my phone in five minutes, but I’m acutely aware of it in my pocket, silent, mocking me.
The fitted white tee clings just right across my shoulders, but the heat of three hundred bodies packed together makes me glad I left my jacket in the car.
Seattle’s November chill doesn’t stand a chance in here—the windows have fogged up with condensation, turning the street outside into a blur of headlights and neon.
I adjust my backwards cap, and take another pull from my beer, letting the cold wash down my throat.
Hayes appears at my elbow, his shoulder bumping mine.
“Third time you’ve checked the door in the last minute.”
“Shut up,” I mutter, but I’m caught—my eyes drift to the door again without my permission.
The bouncer’s checking IDs under harsh fluorescent light that spills onto the sidewalk, highlighting each new face.
None of them Iris. Beckett leans across the bar, raising his voice over a bass drop that rattles the glasses behind the bartender.
“Ten bucks says she shows.”
“Twenty says she doesn’t,” Nick counters, and I resist the urge to thump them. Even if I did have the same wager running in my own head.
“You should’ve just driven her,” Hayes points out, echoing the thought that’s been circling my brain for the past forty minutes. “What kind of guy lets a lady Uber to a bar alone?”
“The kind who lost a twenty-minute argument about it,” I shoot back. “And stop making bets about my life.” Nick sets his beer down, catching my eye.
Behind us, Hayes and Beckett’s voices rise in an increasingly animated debate about the statistical probability of being stood up based on text response times.
“No, but see, if you factor in the emoji-to-word ratio—” Nick’s head tilts slightly toward the far end of the bar, barely perceptible in the dim light, but the meaning is clear.
I follow him through the crowd, weaving past a group of girls in sparkly tops, their laughter bright against the thundering bass. We end up in a narrow pocket of space near the service entrance, where the music hits differently, the speakers angled away just enough that you can hear yourself think.
“Listen,” he starts, voice low. “I know you like this girl, but—”
“Don’t,” I interrupt, but there’s no heat in it. We both know he has to say it.
“One photo, Col. That’s all it takes. One blurry iPhone shot of you leaving a bar with some girl, and tomorrow’s headlines write themselves.
” The PR team is still working overtime with the sponsors, carefully rebuilding the image I’d fractured with one too many careless nights.
Truthfully, I shouldn’t even be here. But Iris isn’t just some girl.
She’s careful, so careful, with everything she does and says it makes me want to unravel everything about her.
She’s wickedly funny, even when she isn’t trying to be.
And she’s so genuine, I don’t think there’s a single bad thing about her.
I meet Nick’s eyes and let out a slow breath, my gaze drifts back to the door for what feels like the hundredth time tonight.
The bouncer steps aside and my whole world narrows down to the woman walking through the door.
Iris glides in, eyes scanning the room, hands picking at each other like she’s scared to be here, to take up space.
The dark green top makes her eyes glow under the neon lights, and the black skirt she’s wearing should be illegal in at least forty states.
Chunky boots add just enough height that I know she’d fit perfectly under my chin.
She hovers just inside the doorway, golden brown curls twisting around her shoulders, those green eyes finding mine as she lifts her hand in a small wave.
“It’s been fun knowing you, man,” Nick says beside me, laughter in his voice as he claps me on the back.
“You were a solid teammate. We’ll miss you when you’re gone.
” I’d shoot him a glare but my face isn’t cooperating, too busy trying to remember how to form expressions that don’t scream ‘holy fuck’ in neon letters.
I weave through the crowd, working hard to keep my expression neutral even though my heart’s doing backflips.
We meet somewhere between the dance floor and the bar, and there’s this awkward moment where neither of us knows what to do.
Too familiar for a handshake, not quite familiar enough for anything else.
I go for a hug because standing here staring at her feels worse, and she steps into it with a small laugh that gets lost in the music. It’s quick and uncertain, that weird half-hug you give someone when you’re not sure where the lines are drawn. God, this is painful.
“Hey,” she says, tucking a curl behind her ear, and I remember how to speak.
“Hey yourself.” I rest my hand lightly on her lower back, guiding her toward the bar where the guys are trying (and failing) to look like they haven’t been watching this whole interaction.
“Wasn’t sure you’d actually show,” I admit, looking down at her.
She shrugs, that little half-smile I’m starting to know too well playing at her lips.
“Had to prove you wrong. Show you I know how to have fun after all.”
“Oh, so that’s what this is about? Proving me wrong?”
“Among other things.” There’s something in her voice that makes my stomach flip, but before I can analyze it too much, she nods toward the bar.
“So, are you going to introduce me to your friends?” Hayes and Beckett straighten up as we approach, and I catch the way their eyes widen slightly.
Yeah, I know the feeling. Amanda’s appeared at Nick’s side, she must have shown up while I was busy picking my jaw up off the floor—and she’s already beaming at Iris like she’s found a new best friend.
“Guys, this is Iris,” I say, unnecessarily since I haven’t shut up about her for weeks.
“Iris, these are the guys. This is Nick, our goalie, and that’s his wife Amanda.
And the idiots beside them that can’t stop staring”—I shoot them a pointed look—“are Hayes and Beckett.” They share a look before Beck gives a little two finger wave and Hayes lifts his chin in acknowledgment.
Both of them wearing the same shit-eating grin. I’m so gonna regret this.
“Man,” Beckett says, shaking his head as he sets his beer down on the bar, “you didn’t do her justice.” Hayes nods in agreement.
“Yeah, she’s a total smokeshow, dude. Way to bury the lead.” A furious blush spreads across Iris’s cheeks, climbing up to the tips of her ears.
“What do you mean?” I manage, though my voice comes out a little strangled.
“I believe,” Hayes draws out the words, gesturing at Iris with his beer bottle, “your exact words were ‘she’s hot.’ You didn’t say she looked like that.
” He motions to all of her with his free hand, like I might have somehow missed which ‘that’ he’s referring to.
Nick leans forward, apparently unable to resist piling on.
“He’s got you there, bud.” Amanda elbows him, but her grin is wide. And then Iris turns toward me, and holy hell, the playful smirk curving those lips should come with a warning label. She tilts her head, curls falling across one shoulder.
“So,” she says, voice low enough that I have to lean in slightly to hear her over the music, “you think I’m hot, huh?”
“I... um.” My brain completely flatlines.
Error 404: Coherent response not found. I’m staring down at her like an idiot, watching the way the lights dance in her eyes.
She’s teasing me. Actually teasing me. “You know what? Let’s get you a drink, yeah?
” The bartender catches my eye, and I lean in close to Iris so she can hear me over the music.
“What can I get you?”
“Vodka soda?” She has to raise her voice over a particularly aggressive bass drop, and I nod, relaying the order.
Out of the corner of my eye, I can see my friends claiming the corner booth, Nick already waving down a server.
The bartender slides our drinks over, and before I can reach for my wallet, Hayes materializes beside us.
“Put it on my tab,” he shouts, then flashes Iris a devilish grin.
“Consider it an apology in advance for having to put up with all of us tonight.” My stomach flips, because I know that grin.
Shit. Maybe I didn’t think this through.
These guys have been front-row witnesses to every questionable decision, epic fail, and general disaster I’ve managed to create this past year.
And they have zero filter and a general lack of mercy.
“Wow,” I say, mentally calculating how many stories it would take for Iris to run screaming into the night, “that’s suspiciously nice of you.”
“I’m a suspiciously nice guy.” Hayes snags Iris’s drink and hands it to her.
“Come on, we got a booth.” We’re herded toward the corner where the others are already deep in the serious business of appetizer selection.
I watch Iris take it all in—the easy chaos of it all.
Nick and Amanda sharing a menu, heads bent together while she points out options.
Beckett’s already got half the appetizer menu memorized, ticking items off on his fingers.