Page 8

CHAPTER 8

DYLAN

T he rooftop bar’s neon sign casts a vibrant glow over the sidewalk as we approach. The electric hum of bass-heavy music pulses from inside, deep enough to vibrate in my chest.

I’m already out of my element. But for once? I don’t mind.

The elevator ride up is packed with bodies—teammates, strangers, people laughing, buzzing with energy. When the doors slide open, the full weight of the club crashes over me.

The music. The lights. The scent of sweat, spilled liquor, and expensive cologne.

It’s chaotic, overwhelming, alive.

I scan the space, taking it in. In the center, a massive dance floor, pulsing with bodies, the beat commanding every movement. A sleek bar stretching along the back wall, lined with glassware that catches the club lights. Booths tucked into the corners, occupied by groups leaning in over drinks, laughter spilling into the air.

So this is where they all unwind.

Teammates scatter immediately—some heading straight for the bar, others already pulling each other onto the dance floor.

I lean against a railing near the edge of the floor, soaking it in. I’ve never been much for clubbing. The noise, the crowd, the artificial heat of too many bodies in one place—But tonight? It feels electric.

The music isn’t just sound—it’s something I feel in my bones. The lights blur, colors melting together in a way that makes everything seem more alive.

I don’t feel like an outsider tonight.

Maybe I should go out more.

Movement at the far side of the club draws my attention. Not the dance floor—past that. Toward the VIP section near the bar. A cluster of women crowds around a single stool.

I notice him immediately. Broad shoulders. That unmistakable rugby build—powerful, athletic. Tanned brown skin, inked with tribal tattoos curling over his forearms and biceps. A cocky, half-lidded smile that says he already knows exactly how this night is going to play out.

I don’t need to be close to know—he’s enjoying the attention.

But not in a way that feels genuine.

More like… he’s letting it happen. Like this is routine for him.

I watch, half-amused, half-fascinated, as the women around him seem to move in constant rotation.

A blonde in a skintight dress leans in first, whispering something in his ear.

He grins, nods, and murmurs something back that makes her giggle.

Then, almost on cue, she shifts and a brunette in red slides into her place, her hand resting lightly on his knee. She tilts her head, pouting slightly, like she’s repeating the same move as the first girl.

He barely reacts. Same grin. Same murmur. Same giggle.

A third woman, this one with dark curls and sharp cat-eye makeup, swoops in next, handing him a fresh drink before smoothly replacing the brunette’s position.

He accepts the glass with lazy, easy charm.

Like he’s done this a hundred times before.

The first blonde reappears, apparently not happy about being rotated out. She nudges the brunette.

The brunette nudges the third girl.

And suddenly, they’re locked in some sort of silent, passive-aggressive battle for position.

The guy just leans back, amused but completely unbothered.

I can’t help it. I laugh under my breath, shaking my head.

So that’s the game he plays.

I’ve seen guys like him before—the ones who never have to chase. The ones who attract attention without even trying. The ones who can say three words and make someone melt.

Good for him, I guess.

But there’s zero chance he’d ever be interested in me.

I’m not the type to fawn.

I’m not here for this kind of attention.

And honestly?

I’d rather compete against him on the field than play that game.

With that thought, I shrug him off completely, turning back toward the bar—unaware that Kai has just caught sight of me.