Riley POV

I left after the second period.

Couldn’t take another minute of slapshots and dudes screaming at referees like it was a life-or-death situation. Avery gave me the whole “But it’s important to Liam!” routine, like that was supposed to make me care. I didn't. Not about hockey. Not about whatever bro-fest was happening on that ice.

“You sure you don’t want to stay?” Avery asked, looping her arm through mine as I yanked on my coat.

“Yes. Very sure.”
She sighed dramatically. “You’re impossible.”
“You dragged me to a sports coliseum, Avery. For fun. This is on you.”

Outside, the air was somehow colder than inside the arena, which I didn’t think was scientifically possible. I tugged my scarf tighter, ready to disappear into the night, far away from overpriced beer and guys who think slamming into each other counts as communication.

“I’m just saying,” Avery called after me, “you might wanna give hockey guys a chance. They’re not all…”

“Dumb, emotionally stunted cavemen with a concussion fetish?” I offered, spinning on my heel. “Or so I can add ‘gets ghosted by emotionally stunted manchild with glorified stick' to my dating resume?”

She made a face. “That’s...extreme. Not every guy on the team is a Neanderthal.”

I arched a brow. “Are they not? They speak in chirps, fist bumps, and smell like Axe body spray and bad decisions.”

She laughed. “Liam’s not like that.”

“Yeah, because you broke him in. I’m not trying to train a grown man like a rescue dog.”

She rolled her eyes. “So what’s the plan then?”

“I’m going to a bar. One where I don’t need earplugs and emotional armor. Maybe I’ll meet a regular guy. One with working brain cells and zero face scars.”

She held up her hands in surrender. “Fine. Just text me when you get there, alright?”

“Will do.”

The bar was lowkey. Soft amber lighting, music low enough to think, and the kind of scuffed wooden floors that said we’ve been here longer than your last five bad decisions. No sports memorabilia. No flat screens blasting slow-mo fights. No crowd roar vibrating your spine. That alone felt like a win.

I picked a booth near the back and nursed a drink while pretending to be interested in whatever the dating app gods had served up tonight. The results? Grim. One guy had a fish in every picture. Another had Live, Laugh, Lift in his bio unironically. The third looked like he hadn’t blinked since 2017.

I sighed, stood up, and headed for the bathroom. A little eyeliner touch-up. Maybe a miracle.

Nate POV 

I just wanted a beer and a dark corner.

Instead, I walked into the bar and immediately knew I’d been followed.

“Fuckin’ hell,” I muttered under my breath, eyeing my teammates swarming through the entrance like they owned the place. Liam is leading the pack, of course. Avery is right behind him.

So much for quiet.

I ducked toward the far end of the bar before anyone could spot me, ordered something simple, whiskey on the rocks, and leaned on the counter, half-ready to ghost out the back if this turned into a team hang.

And then I saw her. The girl from the hallway.

Combat boots, dark hair, death stare. Same don't-fuck-with-me posture like she was holding the line in a war zone.

I froze.

She hadn’t seen me. She was coming back from the bathroom, cheeks flushed, eyeliner sharp enough to cut glass. Her eyes narrowing when she caught sight of Avery and the boys taking over a table like they were hosting a post-game reunion for every player who’s ever had a penalty minute.

She pivoted fast, clearly planning an escape.

But Avery was quicker. Grabbed her by the wrist, grinning like a lunatic.
“One drink,” I heard her say, all sunshine and cheer.

Reluctantly, the hallway girl let herself be dragged toward the bar, right next to me. She hadn’t clocked me yet. I turned slightly, just enough to catch her profile.

Still pissed. Still stunning.

I waited until Avery got distracted and disappeared toward Liam. Then I glanced sideways at her and said, “So… what’s a puck bunny like you doing in a place like this?”

She blinked, then turned to me slowly. Debating whether to throw her drink in my face or set me on fire. “Puck bunny?” she repeated, voice flat, like the words tasted like battery acid. “Let me guess. You think any woman at a bar after a game is here to jump on your jockstrap?”

I grinned. “Just testing a theory.”

“Well, here’s your result: you're not that special, and your theory sucks. Plus, I don’t hook up with hockey players.”

“Wow,” I said. “You make that sound like a moral code.”

“It is. Right under don’t text your ex and never trust a guy with a playoff beard.” She turned back to her drink.  The rim fogged slightly from the heat of her mouth, her lipstick smudged just enough to be distracting.

I couldn’t stop smiling.God, I am obsessed. 

No idea who she was, and it seems like she doesn’t know who I am. Not really. And I should’ve corrected her. But for the first time in... maybe ever, I didn’t want her to know. Because, for once, it felt good being treated like a regular guy with a smart mouth, instead of some fan-favorite defenseman with a highlight reel and a trail of one-night stands.

“Name’s Nate,” I said finally, offering my name like a truce.

She looked over, assessing me like a battlefield medic deciding whether to patch me up or let me bleed out. “Riley.”

I liked the way it sounded in her voice. Strong. Sharp. A little dangerous.

We flirted. Traded snipes and smirks like sparring partners who hadn’t decided if they wanted to throw punches or tear each other’s clothes off. The bar around us buzzed with low laughter and clinking glasses, but all I heard was her voice, low and lethal.

She stirred her drink, eyes fixed on the ice like it had the answers. “So what’s your deal, Nate? Let me guess. You play something. Act like you don’t. Sleep around. Ghost often.”

I grinned. “Wow. That’s… shockingly accurate.”

She finally looked up. “You’re not even denying it?”

“Would it help if I said I was in therapy?”

“Are you?”

“Nope.”

She barked a laugh, quick and sharp, then shook her head. “God, you’re annoying.”

“But charming,” I offered.

“You’re like… if a red flag had a great jawline.”

I leaned in slightly. “So you have noticed the jawline.”

She gave me a sideways glance. “I’m not blind. Just emotionally literate.”

I sipped my whiskey, the burn grounding me as I let the silence stretch, watching the light catch in her eyes. She stirred her drink slowly, the ice swirling in quiet circles, her eyes on the glass like it might give her a reason to stay or run.

“You single?” I asked, tone low, like maybe the answer mattered more than it should have.

She tilted her head, lips curling into something dangerous. “That depends. Are you gonna make it weird?”

“Probably.”

That got a real laugh, loud and surprised, like I’d sucker punched it out of her.

“Jesus,” she said, shaking her head again, but this time she didn’t look away.

Something changed then. Not soft, not sweet. Just… heavier. Like the air between us got denser. Hotter.

Her hand slid across the bar just an inch closer. Not touching me. But close enough to notice.

“I still don’t know who the hell you are,” she murmured.

“Good,” I said. “Let’s keep it that way.”

She arched a brow, curious, maybe even tempted. “Mystery man, huh?”

“Something like that.”

She leaned in, eyes flicking to my mouth, then back up. “Just one kiss. Doesn’t mean anything.”

I nodded slowly. “Sure. Nothing at all.”

But when I kissed her, it wasn’t soft. It wasn’t casual. It was messy and fast and electric, like we were both daring the other to pull back first.

She tasted like tequila and defiance. Like a challenge. Like the last bad idea you make on purpose.

And when she kissed me back, fist curling in the front of my hoodie like she needed something to hold onto. I knew two things:

One, I was already fucked.

And two, this wasn’t going to be a one-night anything.