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austin

I’m all yours until a hockey player falls in love with me. Then you’re on your own…

W hy does the guy at the end of the bar look familiar?

I give him another glance, squinting slightly as if it’ll help my memory. Nope. Still can’t place him.

Sliding onto a stool in the center of the bar (luckily, it’s one that doesn’t wobble), the worn leather creaks under me as I cross my legs and settle in, propping my elbow on the bar.

And before you go asking what the heck I’m doing at the bar for the second time this week, the answer is simple: grabbing dinner. I’ve had a long day and don’t feel like cooking, and this place makes a burger so good it should probably be illegal.

I open the menu, even though I already know what I’m ordering. The bacon cheeseburger is a no-brainer, and their fries? Life-changing. I skim the options anyway, stealing another quick glance at the broody guy down the bar.

The guy at the bar.

His broad shoulders.

He sure is good-looking .

Something about him keeps pulling my attention .

There’s something about him—something familiar. It’s not the way he’s hunched over his drink—which looks like ice water—as if it personally offended him. It’s the jawline, the dark, messy hair, and unmistakable energy of someone who’s mentally replaying every bad decision they’ve ever made.

Like the universe has wronged him recently and he’s still debating how to retaliate.

Huh.

I tap my fingers on the edge of the bar, debating. Curiosity isn’t a good enough reason to talk to a stranger, is it? Then again, what’s the harm in striking up a little conversation?

Before I can overthink it, the words are out of my mouth.

“Rough day?”

He doesn’t react at first; stares at the ice cubes floating in his glass. For a moment, I don’t think he heard me—or worse, he’s ignoring me.

But then he turns, locking his eyes onto mine.

Oh.

Oh …

Okay. Wow.

Did I say good-looking?

I take it back.

He’s…

Wow.

So stunningly similar to Gio Montagalo that I am taken aback.

But. With the ball cap he has on, it’s hard to see his eyes–the bar is way too dim, the lighting throwing too many shadows over his face.

I blink three more times before realizing I’ve been staring. LIKE A WEIRDO.

I swear the corner of his mouth twitches like he knows exactly the effect he’s having on me.

“Rough day,” he repeats, voice low and gravelly. “Something like that.” Pause. “Rough week , actually. ”

I raise an eyebrow, leaning slightly toward him. “Well. Whatever’s in that glass doesn’t look like it’s helping.”

Ha ha.

His lips twitch, but barely. “It’s water.”

Ding, ding, ding—I was right!

“Let me guess,” I continue, gesturing toward his glass. “You’re one of those people who think water solves everything. Bad day? Water. Hangover? Water. Life falling apart? Water. ”

He shrugs, his dark eyes flicking back to mine. “I’m not a big drinker.”

“Valid,” I concede, grabbing my Sprite with lime and raising my glass in a toast. “You know what helps more?”

He arches an eyebrow, waiting.

“Bacon. Cheese burger,” I declare victoriously. “Guaranteed to fix any bad mood.”

“Now you sound like my sister.” He laughs.

“Why? Does she like burgers?”

“No—she’s always pushing gummy bears on me like those are a cure for any ailment.”

Interesting. “Gummy bears?” I repeat, tilting my head. “That’s oddly specific. Is she a doctor or something? Is this her medical opinion?”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Nope.”

“Does it help?”

He pauses, considering. “Sometimes.”

At that exact moment, my burger arrives. It’s in a to-go bag, packed neatly in a white Styrofoam container doing nothing to disguise the mouthwatering smells wafting out of it.

My mouth waters as I untie the knot and lift the lid, taking a deep whiff.

“Mmm.” I sigh contentedly, then glance at him. “Want one?”

I lift a fry and hold it in his direction, wiggling it slightly to tempt him with it.

He eyes the fry like it’s some kind of foreign object, then looks back at me, one eyebrow raised. “You offering me pity fries?”

I grin at him. “Yup.”

He hesitates for a moment, then leans forward, plucking the fry from my hand with an almost begrudging smile.

“Thanks.”

To keep myself busy I eat a fry, too.

Swallow.

“You live around here?” he asks, chewing.

I push the container closer, so it’s between us now, an unspoken invitation for him to grab another.

“Yeah, not far. A couple blocks over.”

He nods, reaching for another fry. “Nice area.”

“It’s alright,” I say casually. Nice isn’t the word for this area; expensive. Waspy. High-end. Those are better words to describe it, but I won’t get into that. “What about you? You a regular around here?”

Never seen him here before, not that I come here often.

In the shadows beneath the brim of his cap, I watch his lips twitch, almost forming a smile. “Not really. Thought I could use a change of scenery.”

“Sure, sure.” I gesture toward his glass. “Because the water at home wasn’t cutting it?” I chuckle. “You like their Sonic ice better?”

The quip earns me a soft laugh and I feel an odd sense of victory. I pause to grab another handful of fries—three at a time, naturally—and take a bite before continuing my banter.

“I was here the other night for the Baddies game—what I love about this place is it doesn’t get crowded so I can watch games in peace.”

His expression shifts enough to make me pause.

“The Baddies game?” He goes still, one fry suspended halfway to his lips.

“Yeah,” I say, nodding. “Talk about a letdown, hey? Goalie seriously screwed the pooch on Thursday. Ugh. ”

He’s silent for a moment, dark eyes watching me intently.

“What?” I chew and talk at the same time now that we found a topic I feel passionately about. “Am I wrong ? ‘Cause I’m pretty sure I saw that puck fly past him at least three times, and he wasn’t even close.”

His lips twitch, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. More like…

A restrained smile.

He looks constipated.

“Everyone has off nights,” he says finally, studying his water glass, pushing it forward so the bartender can refill it. “Including goalies.”

“True—but three nights?” I pop yet another fry into my mouth. “This wasn’t an off night though. This was a train wreck. Like, they should check the poor guy for whiplash.”

Poor bastard.

He exhales a quiet laugh through his nose, finally setting the fry down on the napkin beside his glass. “At least you’re honest.”

“The good news is, he’s not around to hear me rant about how horrible he’s been playing.” I hesitate. “I mean, I love the guy, but lately I have no idea what his deal is.”

His countenance doesn’t change—no smirk, no frown—just a stillness that suddenly feels heavier than it should.

“Right?” I ask again, my voice faltering, confidence waning.

One second passes.

Then another.

Then,

“Right.” The guy clears his throat. “You sound like you know what you’re talking about. Huge fan?”

I nod enthusiastically. “I am. My dad passed away a few years ago and I inherited his season tickets; I’ve been coming to games since I was little. What about you?”

“Yup. Big fan.” He also nods. “Where are your seats? ”

“Upper level, center ice,” I say. “They’re great. You can see the whole rink, every play, every bad call from the refs.”

He smiles faintly. “Good seats. But…”

“But?” I prompt, reaching for a knife so I can cut my cheeseburger in half. Might as well eat it now since we’re sitting here chatting. I hate reheating food.

“They’re not at the glass.” He says it nonchalantly—as if those seats weren’t a big deal.

I laugh, shaking my head as I finish cutting the burger. “No. I’m not made of money, so nosebleeds will have to do until I win the lottery.”

The guy raises an eyebrow and leans toward me. “What if I told you I could get you seats at the glass?”

I laugh at him again, picking up one half of my sandwich and manhandling it as I say, “I’d say you’re either delusional or you know someone important.”

“My sister,” he confesses. “She has great seats and hasn’t been going—if you want two tickets for the next home game, they’re yours.”

I feel a slice of pickle slide out the corner of my mouth.

It lands with a slimey splat on the bar top.

“Wait, you’re serious?” I do not care that I probably have ketchup on my chin! This man is offering me tickets against the glass? Say what?!

“Totally serious,” he says, leaning back in his chair and taking another sip of water, like he didn’t drop an insane offer on me.

“Why though?” I ask, still trying to process what happened. “Those tickets cost a fortune and I am a total stranger.”

“A cute stranger.”

“Excuse me?” I manage, my voice pitching up a little too high. Is he flirting with me or am I imagining things?

He shrugs his broad shoulders, completely unbothered, lips quirking into the faintest smirk. “I can’t call you cute?”

I blink at him, feeling a flush creep up my neck. “That’s not the point! You don’t give people tickets based on appearances. I could be a lunatic. Or a crazy stalker fan.”

“Are you?”

“No.”

“Then it’s settled. Fans should get good seats. And cute fans? Even better seats.”

Did I just fall in love?

Is this love at first sight?

No. Absolutely not.

That would be ridiculous!

I do not believe in love at first sight.

No.

That’s what happens in movies and my life has never been picture perfect—not even close. Not even a little. My love life? An even bigger mess. My last date ended with a guy who "forgot” his wallet, ordered the most expensive thing on the menu—then ghosted me when I asked if he could Venmo me the money.

I’m still waiting for that $120, by the way.

So, no.

I’m not falling for the stranger with the toothy grin and the absurdly good hair and deliciously broad shoulders who’s offering me free , outrageously expensive VIP tickets to see my absolute favorite sports team.

Pfft.

As if.

“Are you okay?” His voice cuts through my mental spiral, pulling me back to the present. He’s watching me with one eyebrow raised.

“Huh?” I blink as I come to. “Oh, yeah. Totally fine.” Never been better. “Why?”

“You went quiet,” he says, smirking again. “I thought I broke you for a second.”

My head shakes. “Honestly, it’s because I don’t know what to say. ”

My heart wants to burst with excitement and I bite down on my bottom lip to stop any word vomit.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but—can I get your number?” the guy says. “I’ll have to message you the QR code.”

“Oh,” I say, surprised, but not in a bad way. “Yeah, of course.”

I rattle off my cell, and stare at his hands as his fingers deftly type my numbers into his phone. Big. Strong hands.

Rough looking.

Man hands…

A moment later, my phone buzzes.

“There.” He slips his phone back into the back pocket of his jeans. “Tickets should be there.”

I glance down at my phone, the confirmation text lighting up the screen. My eyes widen, and I can’t help the soft gasp that escapes my lips.

“Wow,” I murmur, feeling a mix of awe and unease settle in my chest. “Thank you, seriously. This is so?—”

“Generous? Thoughtful? Too good to be true?” he cuts in, smirking.

“Yes.” I squint at him as he stands, digs into his back pocket for his wallet. From it, he pulls out several crisp bills and places them on the bar, tipping the bartender generously. Too generously, in my opinion because he was only drinking water, but who am I to judge? “Unless your plan is to murder me.”

It’s meant to be a joke, but even as the words leave my mouth, a tiny voice in the back of my head wonders if I should be more cautious. After all, no one is this perfect without a catch.

“Too late for take-backs,” the guy announces. “Already have your number.”

Oh shit. That’s right.

My stomach dips at how easily I handed over my phone without much thought, and now I’m suddenly regretting it.

“Well if you’re going to murder me, shouldn’t I at least have your name? ”

He glances over his shoulder, his smirk back in full force as he pulls on a leather jacket. “My friends and sister sometimes call me Gee.”

“G. Like the letter ?”

He nods. “Yup—like the letter.”

I tilt my head, trying to make sense of it. “Is that your real name, or are you trying to make yourself harder to track when you inevitably end up on the evening news?”

He is in no rush to defend himself. “Stick around long enough, and you’ll find out. What’s yours?”

“Austin,” I feel oddly self-conscious under his gaze.

He seems to mull it over for a moment, his head tilting slightly, and I brace myself for whatever witty remark he’s about to throw my way. Trust me, I’ve heard the jokes before; stupid comments about Texas, the song with the same title—you name it.

Instead, he watches me several moments before saying, “That’s pretty,” and I blush from the roots of my hair down to the tips of my toes.

He steps closer, closing the small distance between us, and for a moment, I think he’s going to say something else. Instead, he reaches out and gently tugs at the sleeve of my jacket, almost like a reflex.

“Take care, Austin.” The guy winks and I suppress a shiver. “I’ll be in touch.”

I stand frozen for a beat, staring at the space he’s vacated. My mind races, half tempted to chase him down and demand more answers. Who even was this guy? Gee? G? What’s his real name? And what was his deal, swooping in and leaving like some kind of mysterious knight in shining tinfoil?

I let out a labored sigh and force myself to look down at my phone and swipe on the screen to look at my new message: “Let me know if you need anything else for the game.”

It’s so simple, yet it somehow makes my heart skip a beat. Gah, I love it! Can’t help but grin from ear to ear, biting my lip to keep from giggling to myself. What was I even smiling about? I didn’t know anything about him, yet here I was, giddy like a dang teenager.

Well.

This whole evening just got a whole lot more interesting.

Glancing toward the exit, I half hope he’ll come back, already knowing he won’t. The moment is over—fleeting but electrifying— like a spark in the dark.