Riley POV

The thing about hangovers is they hit harder when they’re emotional.

I wasn’t even that drunk last night. Two, maybe three drinks, but I woke up with this tight, pulsing ache behind my eyes and a weight in my chest that refused to budge no matter how many times I checked my phone and saw that last text from Nate.

Nate: “Sorry, I got pulled away. You okay?”

I didn’t answer.

Not because I didn’t see it.

But because screw him. He knew I didn’t want to be there, and he still left me standing alone like some sad idiot waiting on a guy who couldn’t bother to show up for real.

He said he’d be right back. And then he wasn’t.

And I wasn’t about to reward that with a reply.

“Brunch fixes everything,” Avery sings as we slide into a booth at our usual spot. She looks entirely too chipper for someone who was pounding champagne twelve hours ago.

“Brunch fixes hangovers,” I mutter. “It doesn’t fix abandonment issues.”

She snorts. “Jesus, dramatic much?”

I glare at her over my coffee. “He said he’d be right back. Then vanished.”

Outside the window, downtown hums with Sunday traffic—horns, joggers, parents wrangling strollers. Inside, the clink of cutlery and the hum of low conversation feels like background noise to the buzzing in my brain.

Avery shrugs, unfazed. “Maybe he got distracted. Rich people are shiny.”

I stab my pancake so hard the fork nearly bounces. It tastes like cardboard anyway. My stomach turns with every bite.

She scrolls through her phone while I try to summon the will to swallow solid food. “Anyway, the event was a success. I even snagged a pic with Liam and some of the other guys. Look.”

She tilts her screen toward me, showing off a series of filtered snapshots, her beaming beside Liam, a selfie with the silent auction table, a group shot of a bunch of tall dudes in suits and…

I freeze.

My fork slips from my hand and hits the plate with a clatter.

There, clear as daylight, center of the frame, is Nate.

Wearing a fitted black blazer, standing with a bunch of hockey players I vaguely recognized from the giant banners at the rink.

He’s smiling. Comfortable. Like he belongs.

Because he does.

Because he’s one of them.

Number 17.

My stomach drops. Like the floor’s been ripped out from under me and I’m in free fall.

I hear Avery saying something, but it’s muffled. Distant. Like I’ve been dunked underwater.

And suddenly it all clicks.

The weird way he dodged hockey conversations. The comments. The evasiveness. The hoodie with the pro team logo. The way he always smelled like a locker room. The fact that he knew too much about skates and nothing about boundaries. The way he flinched when I mentioned hating jocks.

And I, standing there like an idiot, thinking he was different. That he was just… Nate.

I push away from the table so hard my chair screeches.

‘I spotted a player I know.’

God, I was so stupid.

“Riley?” Avery blinks, voice breaks through, sharper now. “What’s going on?”

“I have to go.”

“You haven’t even…”

But I’m already halfway out the door. Cold air slaps me in the face as I step outside and dial Nate with fingers that can’t stop trembling. My heart is thudding so loudly I can barely hear the ring.

He answers on the second ring.

“Riley,” he says, voice warm like nothing’s wrong. “Hey, I was gonna…”

“You lied to me,” I snap. No preamble. No warm-up. Just fire.

“What?”

“You lied, Nate. You’re not some random guy I met at the bar. You’re a fucking hockey player.”

He goes quiet. And that’s all the confirmation I need.

“I was going to tell you,” he says finally, but even he sounds like he doesn’t believe his own bullshit.

“When? After I unknowingly cheered for your team? After I said something dumb about jocks again? After I got over it, right?”

“It’s not what you think…”

“You mean it’s not a lie?” I cut in. “Because it feels like a lie.”

He’s quiet again.

And that silence is louder than anything he could say.

“No,” I snap. “Don’t think of ways to lie to me. Don’t deflect. Just... tell me why you let me stand there last night and lie to my face.”

“I wasn’t trying to hurt you. I just…” He exhales. “It got complicated.”

“Complicated is forgetting to text back. This was a choice. You chose not to tell me.”

“Riley…”

“No,” I say, flat and final. “We’re done.”

I hang up before he can reply, my hand shaking so bad I nearly drop the phone. I can see my breath in the cold. I feel raw and hollow like something just broken inside me.

And maybe it’s dramatic. Maybe I should’ve listened. Let him explain. But I trusted him. I let him in.

And he knew, he knew why I hate hockey players. And still, he let me fall.