Page 26 of Sin Bin (BU Hockey Season 2, #1)

Fallon

E veryone in the bar bustles around us, but we just sit across from each other, like we’re both not sure what’s going to happen next. Ollie checks his phone before setting it face down on the table. His eyes find mine and even though I’d rather be just about anywhere else, I can’t look away.

You still pissed at me? He signs.

Nope, I sign back. I love being treated like a child who can’t be left alone for more than a few minutes.

Frustration blankets Ollie’s handsome face. The man could be a model, seriously, and that furrowed brow just makes him look hotter, but I’ll never admit it out loud.

It’s not our fault the world is full of assholes and predators, he signs . Besides, maybe I’m not just here to keep you from being hit on by drunken dipshits. Maybe I want to buy you a drink myself .

The bar is small and getting crowded, so our seating arrangement is cozy.

I can see the dark blond stubble that shadows his jawline and smell the sandalwood scent of his cologne.

His lips are full, and his eyes have the mischievous twinkle of a man who knows how to break the rules without getting caught.

Good thing I’m immune to all that charm.

I’ll buy my own drink , I sign.

You can’t , he signs, shaking his head and holding my gaze. It’s against the rules .

Now I’m the one rolling my eyes. You’re not the boss of me, Ollie Jablonski. No one is. And in case you didn’t know, rules and I don’t get along . I break eye contact with him, scanning the drink menu code with my phone so I can decide on my first legal alcoholic beverage.

In a move that both frustrates me and ignites a fire low in my belly, he tips my chin up so I’m forced to meet his eyes. You and I don’t get along, either, Fallon, but we’re still gonna have a drink together. We have to. It’s bad luck if we don’t.

No it’s bad luck to piss off a girl who has a headache and wants to go to bed.

A server passes by and turns to Ollie because he’s the best looking guy in this room. I have no doubt that several other tables have been trying to get her attention for the last ten minutes or so, but of course she ignores them and zeroes right in on Ollie. I can’t blame the woman, but still.

He places an order and hands a credit card to our server, but it’s so loud in here that I can’t make out what he’s saying.

I check my phone to see if Booker will be here soon, but he hasn’t texted.

I’m sure he’s caught up in celebrating, but if Ollie ordered me an IPA, I’m dumping it on his head and going to bed.

Ok, that seems wasteful. I’ll let him drink it, but I’m still going up to bed.

Ollie nudges my arm. What are you thinking about? You look like you’re either cramming for a test or plotting my death.

A girl can’t multitask ? I sign back. Honestly, though, I’m thinking about going to sleep. If Booker doesn’t show up soon, I’m heading upstairs.

You can’t go yet. Your drink hasn’t arrived.

What part of ‘I have a headache and want to go to sleep’ don’t you understand ?

The look Ollie gives me is so genuine that it threatens to crack the protective armor I use as a shield whenever he’s around.

I understand every word, Fallon, he tells me, his fingers moving smoothly from word to word.

Do you want to take your hearing aids out?

Or do you want me to run up to my room to grab some ibuprofen?

I’ll do whatever you want, but please stick around for one drink.

It’s a nightcap. And not just any nightcap—it’s a happy birthday one .

He's so sweet sometimes that it kills me. And confuses me. But technically, it’s still Saturday night, so I protest. It’s not my ? —

Ollie scoops up his phone, unlocks the screen, and hands it over.

12:01

Well, shit.

As though she knows the time or simply hustled back over here to see Ollie again, our server drops off our drinks. Mine is frothy with a sugared rim and a lime garnish, whereas Ollie’s is a vibrant purple with mint leaves on the side.

Happy birthday, Fallon , he signs before raising his drink and clinking it with mine.

I take a sip, and I have to admit that Ollie got it right. The smooth, creamy drink tastes like a peach sundae and it’s heaven on my lips.

Ollie smiles at me with a knowing look as he signs, You love it, don’t you?

I could lie, but that wouldn’t be fair to this most delicious beverage, so I come clean. Okay, this is actually delicious. What’s it called?

Ollie’s grinning like he just won the Frozen Four again. It’s a peaches and cream margarita. Do you want a sip of mine? It’s a blueberry margarita, and since you allegedly have a newfound love for blueberries, maybe we should trade?

Good luck prying this from my cold dead hands , I tell him. When I die, I’m taking this into the afterlife with me. It’s that good.

No need to get dramatic, he teases , I’m sure our server will stop by soon and I’ll get you another.

I can’t help the laugh that escapes my lips . Oh, I’m sure our server will stop by. I think you’re the only customer in the room who’s actually got her attention.

Ollie lifts his hands, and I can tell he wants to deny it, but then he laughs, too. Are you complaining?

Nope, not at all. But does it ever get old?

Lines appear on his forehead as he looks at me with confusion. Does what ever get old? Ordering drinks or sparring with you?

Option C, I answer , Women blatantly throwing themselves at you.

He’s quiet for a minute and I wonder if I’ve taken us down a conversational road we can’t back out of. Yes, it’s loud and crowded in here, but I’ve turned my hearing aids down and my headache isn’t getting any worse. Maybe the peaches and cream margarita has healing powers.

He hasn’t answered me yet, and I’m sure it’s because we both remember women throwing themselves at him—and onto his dick—the night we met.

I won’t say the memory doesn’t sting but it was unfair of me to bring it up, so I do my best to steer us in another direction and I ask something that’s been on my mind for a while.

How are you so good at ASL? Did you take it in high school like JT did?

Ollie’s blue eyes go wide and I’m afraid I’ve made another misstep, but he smiles gently and shakes his head. No .

That’s all he says, so I should let this conversation die a natural death, but I’m far too curious for my own good and I think this drink might have deleted any filter I ever had.

Oh. Did you grow up with someone who’s Deaf?

It’s just that you speak it really fluently, and most people who bother to learn just pick up bits and pieces.

Ollie swallows the last of his blueberry margarita before looking at me. I didn’t grow up with anyone who’s Deaf. I learned ASL the summer after sophomore year. After I met you, he clarifies.

Now I’m out of words, but our server has dropped off another round and that gives me something to do with my hands.

I was an ass, Fallon, he says.

I know this is the explanation he’s been trying to give me for almost two years now, but there’s no reason to hash it all out now. If we’re going to live in the same house and socialize with the same group of people, we need to let the past go.

You don’t have to explain, I say . It was a party. We danced. You didn’t make any commitment to me, and I didn’t really want you to. I just ? —

He shakes his head, effectively cutting me off.

You deserved better than walking into a room to find me the way you did.

I have no excuse. It was shitty behavior from a shithead kid.

For what it’s worth, I was into you. I was having fun.

So when Koz pulled me aside and told me to knock that shit off, I told him to fuck right off.

But then he said four words that stopped me in my tracks.

I had no idea you were Booker’s little sister and that was a line I just couldn’t cross.

That doesn’t make it right, but I just wanted you to know.

His words should mollify me or at least give me a little closure.

Instead, they have the opposite effect. Are you kidding me?

You let a girl suck your dick while her friend watched because I have a brother and you happen to be his friend?

That’s the dumbest, most misogynistic explanation I’ve heard in a really long time.

Congratulations, you’re even more of a dick than I thought you were.

In my haste to get up, I fumble for my phone, nearly tipping over my drink in the process.

With expert reflexes, Ollie saves the day and rights my drink.

A lone piece of ice jumped ship, though, and when Ollie plucks it off the table and twirls it in his fingers for a second.

I might be crazy, but I swear his attention wanders to the vee of my neckline while he toys with the ice.

His eyes are intense, and I feel the heat of them even if now is not the fucking time, so I blink to break the spell.

Please, wait, he signs after tapping my arm. You’re totally right. Bro Code is a fucked-up thing when you think about it, but to a twenty-year-old athlete, it’s the law. In my underdeveloped mind, I didn’t want to disrespect Booker, and I disrespected you. There’s no excuse, and I’m sorry.

I don’t acknowledge his apology—not yet— because it’s a lot to process.

Instead, I take a minute to sip my drink and check my phone.

There’s no message from Booker yet, but Em sent a Happy Birthday text, so I send a heart back.

My sister’s only seventeen, but she’s wise beyond her years and I find myself wishing she were here so we could talk, but Em’s across the country and even though I know she’s always up for texting, I think I need to handle this on my own.