Page 27

23

Holland

A fter the impromptu shower in the locker room, hunger wins out, and we go in search of food. Bridger takes me to a place called Harvey’s Eats and Treats. It’s a diner that looks like it was ripped straight out of a 1950s postcard. The red vinyl booths gleam under the soft glow of hanging lights, and the walls are plastered with Coca-Cola memorabilia and black-and-white photos of old Hollywood stars. A retro jukebox hums in the corner, its colorful lights twinkling to some old-school rock song I vaguely recognize.

Willow has mentioned this place before, but I’ve never been here. As I take it in, I have to admit that it lives up to the hype.

“Pretty cool place, huh?” Bridger says, holding the door open for me.

“Yeah, it is,” I agree, stepping inside. The smell of sizzling burgers and fried onions wraps around me like a hug and makes me realize just how famished I am. “Although, I’ll reserve judgment until after I eat.”

A waitress wearing a pink uniform approaches with menus tucked under her arm. “Looking for a table or booth?”

“Booth,” we say at the same time before glancing at each other with small smiles.

“Aren’t you two adorable,” she says. “Follow me.”

I don’t look at Bridger as we trail after her. I’m pretty sure my face is a dead giveaway.

Adorable?

That’s not exactly the word I’d use to describe us.

More like complicated.

Or maybe combustible.

The waitress slides two menus onto the table, her pencil poised over a notepad. “Would you like drinks to start out with?”

“Root beer float,” Bridger and I echo simultaneously.

When I glance up from my menu, he smirks. “Wow, just add it to the growing list of what we have in common,” he says, leaning back and stretching an arm along the top of the booth.

“Like I said—adorable,” the waitress chirps.

I clear my throat. “I’ll also have a bacon cheeseburger with the works, and onion rings.”

Bridger’s gaze stays pinned to mine. “Same.”

The older woman jots down our order before taking off.

“Seems like we’re a match made in fake dating heaven,” I force myself to say, needing the reminder.

Especially after what happened in the locker room.

He flashes a slow grin that arrows to the heart of me before exploding on impact.

I don’t like it.

I don’t like what he does to me.

And I certainly don’t like the sensations running rampant beneath my skin, trying to claw their way to the surface.

It’s dangerous.

We need to steer this conversation to safer terrain.

“So,” I say, folding my arms on the table. “What’s the story with this place? Sentimental favorite, or do you bring all your fake girlfriends here?”

His smirk deepens. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“Not really.”

Maybe.

His eyes narrow. “Liar.”

The banter flows easily between us, like it’s second nature, and I hate how much I enjoy it. The guy definitely keeps me on my toes.

Before I can come up with a biting response, a small voice interrupts.

“Excuse me?”

We both turn to see a little boy standing at the edge of our booth. He can’t be older than nine, and his face is lit up like Christmas morning. The waitress drops off two glasses of water before beelining to another table.

“Are you Bridger Sanderson?” he asks, his voice quivering with nerves.

Bridger sits up a little straighter, his brows lifting in surprise. “Yeah, that’s me.”

The boy’s eyes go wide as he bounces on the tips of his toes. “I knew it! You play for the Wildcats, right?”

“That’s right,” Bridger says, his tone warm and easy.

“Could you… could you sign something for me?” He holds out a crumpled napkin along with a pen, his expression hopeful.

With a chuckle, Bridger takes both items. “Sure thing. What’s your name?”

“Charlie,” the boy says, his voice barely above a whisper.

As Bridger scribbles on the napkin, I sit back and watch. There’s something about the way he interacts with the kid that throws me off balance and has everything softening inside me. He’s kind and genuine, without a trace of his usual cockiness.

Charlie practically vibrates with excitement when Bridger hands back the napkin. “Are you gonna play in the NHL next year?”

The question hangs in the air for a second too long.

Bridger leans back, his smile dimming just a bit. “As much as I’d like to do that, it’s not in the cards for me, bud.”

Charlie’s face falls, and I feel a pang in my chest.

Bridger reaches out and taps the boy’s shoulder gently. “But who knows? Maybe someday. Are you gonna keep cheering on the Wildcats through the playoffs? We could sure use the support.”

The boy nods and his grin returns. “I just know the team is going to make it to the Frozen Four!”

“That’s the plan.”

As Charlie rushes back to his table, clutching the napkin like it’s a prized possession, my attention returns to Bridger. He’s staring down at the table, his fingers tracing the condensation on his water glass. For the first time, I realize there’s so much more to him than I allowed myself to believe.

I lean back in the booth before picking up the paper straw wrapper and folding it accordion style.

Bridger’s quiet, his gaze far away as he absently taps a finger against the edge of his glass. For a guy who’s usually so quick with a sarcastic comment, his silence feels heavy.

“If you’re not playing hockey next year,” I ask, breaking the stillness, “what are you going to do?”

With an exhale, he runs a hand through his short, dark hair. “My uncle owns a marketing firm in Chicago. He offered me a job last summer after I interned with him. I actually enjoyed the work, and being around family will be nice.”

“That makes sense,” I say softly. “You’re creative and pretty good at coming up with ideas.”

“Careful, Tate—two compliments in one night? People might start thinking you actually like me,” he says wryly.

I shrug. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

His lips quirk, but the humor doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “It’s not my dream job, but I need to get the hell away from my father. And that’s one way to do it.”

The heaviness of his words sinks deep into my chest and reminds me of what I witnessed in the locker room. On impulse, I reach across the table and clasp his hand in mine. His gaze drops to where we’re now connected, and for a moment, I wonder if he’ll pull away.

It’s almost a surprise when he doesn’t.

The warmth of his fingers permeates mine, making me aware of the intimate gesture.

“What about you?” he asks, his voice quieter. “You’ve got another year left, right?”

I shake my head. “No, I’ll graduate after my summer courses are complete.”

His brows lift. “That’s impressive.”

“The heavy course load has been a killer, but I need to graduate and get a job.” The corner of my mouth lifts slightly. “A different job.”

He leans forward, closing some of the distance between us. “You don’t like working at the Envy Room?”

“It’s not that,” I say quickly. “I actually don’t mind it. The money’s good, and Randi’s a great boss. We’re like a family there. And I’ve never really had that.” My fingers tighten slightly around his. “It’s always been just me and my mom, so it’s kind of nice to have a group of people looking out for me.”

His chin dips once as his gaze remains fixed on me. “Yeah, I get that. It’s what the team has always felt like for me.” His brow furrows. “At least, it used to. Before all this bullshit with the messages started. Now, I don’t know who to trust. I look at some of the guys in the locker room and I can’t help but wonder if they’re behind it.”

The pain in his voice slices through the very heart of me. I chew my bottom lip before blurting, “Can I tell you something?”

His gaze sharpens, his attention fully locked on me. “Sure.”

I suck in a deep breath as my pulse picks up speed. “At first, seeing those messages made me happy.” When his brow arches, I rush on, the words tumbling out in a jumble. “It felt like karma, you know? But now I feel like shit for taking pleasure in your pain. Trust me, that’s not something I thought I’d ever say.”

For a second, he doesn’t respond, and I brace for whatever sharp, cutting remark he’ll make.

Instead, he snorts as a faint smile tugs at the corners of his lips, and he slides his hand out from beneath mine, only to cover it with his own. His palm is warm, and it grounds us in the moment.

“I don’t blame you. The way I dropped you was shitty and immature. I meant every word of my apology last night. I’m sorry for hurting you. If I could go back and make different decisions,” he continues, his voice low and steady, “I would.”

I blink, stunned into silence. My breath catches, his unexpected honesty throwing me for a loop. It’s one thing to apologize under the cover of darkness and quite another to do it while sitting across from me at the diner.

As we stare at each other, the air between us turns charged with something I can’t quite name. Or maybe I’m afraid to label it.

“I think I missed out on something really great.”

His words are so quiet I almost miss them.

A knot forms deep inside me, and I have to look away before he sees the emotion threatening to spill over. I wasn’t prepared for him to crack open the door to his feelings and let me peek inside. I’m unsure what to do with everything careening around within me.

Before I can figure out how to respond to Bridger’s quiet confession, the waitress appears at the edge of the table, balancing two plates stacked with food.

“Here we go!” she chirps, setting the dishes down with practiced efficiency. “Two bacon cheeseburgers with the works, extra onion rings, and root beer floats to keep those sweet teeth happy.”

That’s all it takes for the tension between us to snap like a rubber band. I sit back, grateful for the interruption, as the waitress tops off our waters and leaves us alone with a wink.

“Perfect timing,” Bridger mutters, his lips lifting into something that resembles a smirk, though I can tell he’s still unsettled.

“Yeah,” I reply, picking up an onion ring and dipping it into the tangy sauce on the side. “Can’t let these babies get cold.”

He raises a brow, clearly amused by my attempt to steer the conversation into safer terrain. “Let me guess, onion rings are your weakness?”

I shrug, taking a bite and savoring the crunch. “I prefer to think of them as my love language.”

When he laughs, it’s a low, genuine sound that sends a flutter through my chest. “So, other than threatening bodily harm, onion rings are your love language? Good to know. I’ll keep that in mind for when I’m trying to get on your good side.”

“Don’t bother, Sanderson. I don’t have one.”

We settle into a comfortable rhythm, the seriousness of our earlier conversation fading as we dig into our food. Bridger talks about the playoffs, describing the team’s strategies and rivalries with an enthusiasm that makes me smile.

It’s easy to forget how much I used to dislike him. Sitting here with him now, sharing burgers and banter, I almost feel like I’m getting to know an entirely different person. One who’s kinder, funnier, and far more vulnerable than I allowed myself to believe.

And damn if that doesn’t scare me just a little.

“Hey,” Bridger says, breaking into my thoughts. “You okay?”

I blink, realizing I’ve been staring at him, my burger frozen halfway to my mouth. “Uh, yeah. Just distracted.”

His lips hitch as his eyes twinkle with mischief. “By me? Guess I can’t really blame you for that.”

With a groan, I throw an onion ring at him. “You were doing so well. Don’t ruin it now.”

He catches the onion ring midair before it can hit him, then pops it into his mouth with a wink. “Admit it, that was impressive.”

“You’re ridiculous,” I mutter, but I can’t stop the chuckle from slipping free.

For the rest of the meal, we trade snarky comments and easy smiles. By the time we’ve polished off the last of our dinner, I realize that I’m not ready for the tentative peace and camaraderie we found to end.

It’s actually nice.

As Bridger leans back in the booth, stretching his long legs out beneath the table, the vulnerability from earlier creeps back into his expression.

“Thanks for coming here with me tonight,” he says quietly, his gaze locked on mine. “I needed this more than I realized.”

My throat tightens, and for once, I don’t deflect. “Me too.”

And just like that, the unspoken tension between us settles into something softer, something that feels a lot like understanding.