I’m leaning forward to grab another beer when Garrett appears next to me, dropping down heavy on the bench.
“So. Rodriguez.” He says it like it’s a punchline. “What kind of name is that anyway?”
Fucking here we go again.
“It’s my last name,” I say, keeping it easy. “Most people go by their last names in hockey.”
“Right. Hockey.” He takes a drink. “Must be nice. Playing a game for a living.”
“It has its perks.”
“I bet. Traveling, partying, different girl in every city.” He glances toward where Juliette has her back to us, talking to Olivia. “That’s the stereotype, right?”
I’ve been chirped by guys who do this professionally. Garrett’s barely even trying.
“Some guys live up to stereotypes,” I say. “Some of us don’t.”
“But you did though, right? Before Jules?” He’s leaning in now, trying to get under my skin. “I mean, a guy who looks like you, professional athlete, you’ve probably got a list a mile long.”
“Not really my style.”
“Come on. You’re telling me you’ve been a monk?”
“I’m telling you when I meet someone I actually care about, Idon’t waste time looking at anyone else.” I take a long drink of my beer. “But I guess some people need more than one option to figure out what they want.”
His face goes red. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing, man. Just making conversation.” I clap him on the shoulder, harder than necessary. “Enjoy the rest of your night.”
I turn my back to him and see Juliette watching us, with a curious look on her face.
“What did he say?” she asks.
“Nothing worth repeating.” I take her hand. “Come on. Let’s dance some more.”
The night continues.More drinks, more dancing, more of Juliette actually laughing at something one of Owen’s friends says. She’s loosening up, having fun, being the version of herself she doesn’t let people see very often.
And I’m memorizing it. Every smile, every laugh. The way she throws her head back when she’s actually amused instead of just being polite. I want this to be her all the time. But also, selfishly, I want her to only show this to me, not every other guy in the club.
Around midnight, we end up back on the dance floor. It’s more crowded now, everyone drunk and happy and pressed together. There’s barely room to move without touching someone. Juliette’s in front of me, my hands on her hips, and she’s moving in a way literally going to kill me.
“You’re good at this,” she says, turning to face me. Her hands find my chest, resting there.
“At what?”
“This. Clubs. Making everything fun.” She’s looking up at me and her eyes are bright, pupils dilated in the low light. “I bet you do this all the time.”
“Used to. Not so much anymore.”
“Why not?”
Because I’ve been too busy trying to get your attention. Because going out stopped being fun when all I wanted was to spend time with you.
“Just got boring,” I say instead.
“This doesn’t feel boring.”
“That’s because you’re here.”
