Heat creeps up Natalie’s neck, and she looks away. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Uh-huh, sure. Like you’re above drowning your sorrows in shitty beer like the rest of us.”
Before Natalie can reply, Jesse emerges from the locker room, freshly showered, his sandy brown hair curling at the ends from the dampness. He carries his gear bag over one shoulder and looks worn out but satisfied.
“So?” he asks, throwing his arms out dramatically. “How’d I do?”
“Not bad,” Mila teases, throwing an arm around his shoulders. “I mean, you could’ve scored more. Skated faster. Blocked a few more shots.”
Jesse scoffs. “I’m a forward. Blocking shots isn’t my job.”
“Details,” she says, waving a hand dismissively. “I’d rather talk about where we’re going to celebrate.”
Jesse grins. “That’s what I like to hear. Everyone is heading to Huckleberry’s. They reserved the whole back area for us. You in?”
“Definitely.”
“Nat?” Jesse’s voice cuts through the fog. He waves a hand in front of her face. “Earth to Nat?”
She blinks, startled. She hadn’t realized she was staring at nothing, her thoughts drifting somewhere gray and shapeless.
Jesse’s waiting for an answer, but Natalie hesitates. The idea of being surrounded by loud, obnoxious hockey bros makes her stomach sink. It’s too much—too bright, too noisy, too alive. What she really wants is to go back to the apartment alone, crawl into bed, and disappear under the weight of her blankets. To turn off her phone, the lights, and her own thoughts until the world forgets she’s still here.
But Jesse is looking at her expectantly, and tonight isn’t about her.
She arranges her face in what she hopes will pass as a smile. “Yeah. Let’s do it.”
Huck’s is packed, the steady hum of conversation and bursts of laughter filling the air. Jesse leads them to a booth where Carter, Pavel, Tristan, Theo, and a bunch of other Whalers’ players are already waiting, pitchers of beer and baskets of wings between them. The place is alive with post-game energy—players unwinding, fans lingering, music thumping loud enough to set the mood without drowning out conversation.
“There he is!” Carter calls as Jesse slides into the seat beside him. “Our very own future Hall of Famer.”
Jesse snorts. “I think you mean future AHL lifer.”
“Nah, man, you’re getting the call-up next season,” Carter says confidently, raising his glass. “Just gotta score a few more of those dirty goals.”
Natalie forces a smile as the guys fall into their usual back-and-forth, but it feels distant, like she’s watching a movie she can’t quite immerse herself in. She takes a sip of her drink, focusing on the burn of the alcohol rather than the hollowness in her chest.
She shifts in her seat, and a wave of nostalgia crashes over her,sharp and unforgiving. This is where she met Jake. Right at the bar, before the season started. She can still see him so clearly—those broad shoulders, that serious, unreadable face. The way he drew her in without even trying, like gravity. She remembers stealing glances at him, utterly captivated. And when he stepped in, pulling her away from those awful guys like it was the easiest thing in the world, she never stood a chance. From the moment his eyes met hers, she was his.
Now, the memory tastes bitter, like ashes in her mouth—something once warm, now dead and lingering.
She trails a fingertip along the rim of her glass, half-expecting to look up and see him there, flashing her a knowing smirk as he offers to replace another spilled drink. But he isn’t. And he won’t be. Jake is gone.
And she deserves it.
Her fingers drift instinctively to her neck, seeking the familiar weight of her necklace. But there’s nothing. Just empty skin.
She sent it to him, along with a silent, desperate hope it would tell him what she couldn’t—that she still cared, that she was sorry. Regret coils around her ribs every time she looks in the mirror, a cruel reminder of everything she lost.
Jake is gone. And he isn’t coming back. Why would he?
Natalie blinks hard, eyes stinging as she stares down at the condensation pooling around her drink. She will not cry. Not here. Not now. The bar is too loud, too bright, too packed with people who don’t need to see her fall apart. She swallows the lump burning in her throat and forces herself to focus on something—anything—else.
Her gaze lands on Mila and Theo. It’s an easy distraction, with Mila draped against the table, flirting with Theo like it’s her job.
Natalie’s always been amused by how awkward Theo is around women. It baffles her, truly. He looks like he should be confident: tall, classically handsome in that All-American way, and an absolute menace on the ice. But the moment a woman gives him any real attention, it’s like his brain short-circuits. His responses are clipped, awkwardly timed, or plain bizarre, as if he’s hyper-aware of every word coming out of his mouth and second-guessing all of them.
And Mila? Mila is the type to push every one of his buttons to see him squirm. She’ll eat him alive.
