Page 15

Gracie

"Finally!" I blurt out as I spot Bennett weaving through the crowded sports bar. He's hard to miss, really, with that athletic build and the way he moves—like he owns the place.

"Gracie!" He grins as he reaches me, engulfing my hand in his. "Sorry I'm late. Traffic was a beast."

I roll my eyes but there’s a smile tugging at my lips. "You're forgiven. This time." He look sexy in the black fitted t-shirt that does nothing to hide the muscles underneath with dark blue jeans.

We make our way to a high-top table with a view of the TV screens plastered across the walls. It feels like forever since we've been trying to do this, since our schedules always conflict.

"So, both your brothers are playing in that game?" I ask, nodding toward the nearest screen where two football teams are about to kickoff.

"Yep," Bennett says. "Cole's with the Florida Sharks, and Weston is a Michigan Vikings. Family loyalty is a bit split tonight."

"Must be weird cheering for both teams," I comment and take sip my margarita.

"You have no idea. Mom's got jerseys sewn together so she can root for them both." He chuckles.

"Resourceful." I laugh, imagining her non-stop cheering at the stadium.

"Always." Bennett's gaze lingers on me for a heartbeat too long, enough to make me shiver despite the warmth of The Rinkside Tavern.

"Sounds like quite the rivalry," I say, shifting in my seat, hyper-aware of how close Bennett's knee is to mine.

"Only on the field. Off it, they're thick as thieves." He leans back, his green eyes fixed on the game. "They always pushed each other to be better. Guess that's how they both made it pro."

"Like you, with hockey."

Bennett smiles, a hint of something deeper flashing across his face. "Yeah, like me."

Our eyes lock, and the world tilts slightly, like we're the only two people in the room in the bar. Then the crowd erupts into cheers, pulling us back to reality, and we turn our attention back to the game on the field.

Time passes by way too fast as the last quarter ticks down, and the tension is electric. The brothers Halliday are putting on a show that has the entire bar hanging off the edge of their seats. Bennett's hand brushes mine as we both reach for our drinks, an accidental touch that makes me long for his complete attention and his hands to be all over my body.

"Look at that pass!" I shout over the roar, pointing at one of the screens lining the walls.

"Those two never cease to amaze," he says. "They've got game in their blood."

We're caught in a bubble, just Bennett and me, having a great time with playful jabs about which brother might come out on top. This feels good, easy. It’s like we're old friends, or maybe something more, instead of what we actually are: two people doing a complicated dance around each other's schedules and hearts.

"Can you believe that catch?" I gasp as one of the Hallidays leaps into the air, coming down with the football secured tight against his chest.

"Believe it? I've seen it since they were kids in the backyard." His gaze flickers to mine. "You should see them on skates, though. That's a real treat."

"Multi-talented, huh?"

"Runs in the family." He winks, but before I can roll my eyes at his cockiness, a commotion stirs near the entrance of the bar.

A cluster of girls swarms in, their high-pitched giggles cutting through the low rumble of sports commentary and crowd chatter. They're all dressed in too-tight crop top jerseys and glossy lips, zeroing in on Bennett like he's their feast for the night.

"Isn't that Bennett Halliday?" one of them squeals.

"Sure is," another confirms, her smile sharp and predatory as she sidles up to our high-top table. "Hey, Bennett, remember me?"

I glance at Bennett, who's suddenly stiff, his easygoing demeanor replaced by a tight smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. He shifts, creating a subtle barrier between us and the puck bunnies crowding around him.

"Uh, hey," he replies, polite but guarded. "We're just trying to watch the game here."

"But it's so much more fun watching you," coos one of the girls, draping herself over the back of Bennett's chair. Her fingers trail down his arm, and something inside me clenches tight.

"Right," he murmurs, glancing at me with an apologetic cringe. "I’m busy here. Please find somewhere else to go."

"Come on, don't be like that," another puck bunny whines, pouting her shiny pink lips. “We are just trying to give you some comfort since we know how hard it is to get hit so many times out on the ice.”

I press my lips together, forcing a smile that feels more like a grimace. This is a risk of getting close to someone like Bennett, but seeing it firsthand is a punch to the chest. Yet, despite the aggressive flirting, Bennett's attention keeps flicking back to me, and his discomfort is obvious.

"I appreciate the support, ladies, but I'm just here to enjoy the game," he says, his voice even and firm.

"Of course, Bennett," one of them purrs, her disappointment thinly veiled by a pout. They saunter off, casting backward glances that seem to slide right off Bennett's broad shoulders.

"God, that was... awkward," I mutter, trying to smooth over my ruffled feathers with a sip of my margarita. It tastes too sour now, and I can't tell if it's the drink or the situation.

"Gracie," Bennett starts, turning to me. "Look, about my schedule—"

"And your fan club?" I interject, unable to help myself. I tuck a stray lock behind my ear.

He runs a hand through his tousled blond hair as frustration crosses his face. "Yeah, that too. It's part of the territory, but you should know, none of that matters to me. Not like this... us."

"Us," I echo, the word feeling foreign on my tongue. " I want to believe that. Let’s face it, between your road trips for hockey and my work with Holidates App, when do we even have time for an 'us'?"

"We make time." He leans closer, his knee brushing mine under the table. "And for the record, I don't have a 'reputation.' Just a lot of... speculation."

"Speculation that's hard to ignore," I say, my voice low and my eyes locked onto his. "I've been down this road before, Bennett, and I came out the other side looking more like roadkill than anything else."

"I'm not him. I'm not going to leave you picking up pieces of yourself from the asphalt," he says. "I'm all in. Are you?"

I fiddle with the coaster, spinning it between my fingers, feeling the rough edges and the condensation from my drink dampen my fingertips. I look across at Bennett, his face open, earnest. He's all in. But can I be?

"Gracie?" His voice is gentle, a hand reaching across to still mine.

"Look, Bennett..." I start, swallowing hard against the lump forming in my throat. "You're amazing, you are. This thing between us? It's been... definitely something."

"Then why do I feel like there's a 'but' coming?" His green eyes search mine, mirroring the emotions I'm trying to tamp down.

"Because there is," I admit and glance down at the table before looking back up at him. "The distance, your schedule, the constant attention... It's more than just inconvenient, Bennett. It's a wedge."

"We can work through that. We've both got crazy lives, but that doesn't mean—"

"Listen to me." My voice comes out firmer now, because if I don't say it straight, I'll never say it at all. "I need more than late-night texts and the occasional meetup between games or app launches. I can't build something real on maybe's and what-if's."

He leans back, the chair creaking under the shift of his weight, and runs a hand through his hair.

"Is this about last year?" he asks quietly. "About him?"

"It's about me," I correct him. "About not wanting to lose myself in someone else's shadow again. About needing to know I matter more than just as a convenient distraction."

His jaw clenches, and something in his eyes takes on the sharpness of hurt. "You think that's all you are to me?"

"Isn't it?" The question is accusing, even if I didn't mean it that way.

"Damn it, Gracie. No. You're not—"

"Although, it could happen," I interrupt. "I just can't... I won't go through that again."

Silence stretches between us, filled with the noise of cheers from the sports fans around us.

"Okay," he says quietly. "If that's how you feel."

I nod, fighting back the stinging sensation behind my eyes. "It is."

We sit there, the final whistle of the game sounding off in the distance, signaling the end of something much closer to home. He reaches for his beer, takes a long pull, and when he sets the glass down, there's resignation etched into the lines of his face.

"Then I guess this is goodbye, Gracie Hogan."

"Goodbye, Bennett Halliday."

Heartbroken yet resolute, I stand up, sling my purse over my shoulder, and walk away from the man who could have been the one.