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“Nope,” I say, turning hard on my heel.

“You should go talk to him,” Maggie says from behind me, voice way too gleeful.

“I’d rather walk barefoot across the frozen parking lot.”

“Kinky.”

“I’m ignoring that.”

She hops down, walks around the bar, and grabs a tray, bumping my hip as she passes. “You can’t pretend he’s not into you, Lo. Even if he smells like sweat and unresolved trauma.”

I bite the inside of my cheek and scrub the bar again—harder than necessary.

I’m not flustered. I’m not interested. I’m not staring. Except, maybe, I’m all three. And the worst part? I know how this will play out, just like it did back when he moved here. He’s still separated, not divorced, and even if he was, it was clear after the almost kiss he obviously regrets that he’d go back to looking at me like I have three heads tomorrow.

Move on Lauren Brooks … for real this time.

* * *

The crowd has mellowed into a warm, boozy hum. Laughter now floats in quiet conversation clouds, locals and family taking the players, and anyone who had too much to drink, home.

It felt weird to watch the Wildcard games on the TVs and not be at a game, but tomorrow, watching the National Conference is going to be even more strange, since it’s our league. The good? We’ll know who we’re playing at home next week. I hope it’s not Vegas—fuckers.

Hudson is holding Riley’s coat, helping her slide her arms through the sleeves, all gentle, like he isn’t six-foot-five and built to pancake grown men for a living. She’s glowing—literally glowing, even under the brewery’s low lights—and not just from the baby. The girl is four months pregnant and still the most radiant thing in the room.

“Don’t forget your bag,” I call, pointing to the diaper starter kit Maggie insisted on gifting tonight, like Riley was about to give birth right here.

“God forbid.” Riley laughs, hugging the tote to her chest. “Love you.”

“Love you more,” I say, squeezing her gently before stepping back. “Get some rest. Don’t let Hudson keep you up, watching game tape.”

“I can’t help it if she loves theO-line.” Hudson grins.

“Don’t gas yourself up, Hart,” I mutter. “You’re lucky you’re not the one carrying that baby.”

They wave on their way out, Hudson holding the door, snow flurrying in behind them before it shuts tight. Just like that, another party by the Brooks sister is in the books.

Mickey pops his head out of the kitchen, hair tied up and apron stained like a warzone. “I cleaned the flat top, the fryer’s off, and if any of those boys ask for post-game wings, I will commit an actual felony.”

“You’re a saint,” I say, already halfway to the back bar to do inventory. “Go home before you turn into a headline.”

He salutes me with his spatula and ducks back inside the kitchen before reappearing with his coat and says, “See you tomorrow.”

“Games don’t start until afternoon, Mick—sleep in,” I call to his back.

Maggie finishes stacking chairs on the high-tops, hands on her hips like a woman surveying her kingdom. “You gonna be okay closing alone?”

“Yeah. I’ve got a rhythm.”

She raises an eyebrow. “If your rhythm includes checking on the brooding right guard before you leave, I won’t tell. But Iwillask for details tomorrow.”

I glance over and see he’s by the door, talking with Dad, Jackson, and Uncle Lucas.

“Get out of here.” I toss a coaster at her.

She catches it, winks, and pulls her beanie down tight before heading to where her coat hangs then slipping out with Uncle Lucas.

Mom and Dad head over to me. Mom gives me a hug then steps back, looks around, and asks, “Tell me what you need?”