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I TOLD YOU SO

Tyler

Ah, there’s nothing quite like a night off from the kids. Don’t get me wrong—I love those two little stinkers more than I love playing hockey. But an evening without a request for mac and cheese? Without complaints about who got more or whose turn it is to do the dishes? I’ll happily take it.

It’s been so long since I’ve had a free night that I’m barely even sure what to do with my time.

After finishing dinner with my agent at a restaurant here in Cozy Valley—a productive meeting where we agreed to focus on making the next season better, both on the ice and with sponsorships—I head to the hotel bar.

I’m staying overnight in this small town about forty minutes outside San Francisco since I’m playing golf tomorrow morning in a local tournament some friends here roped me into joining. But until then, no one needs me.

When I catch sight of the baseball game on the big screen, I know this is exactly what a perfect night off looks like.

The bar has a warm, relaxed vibe, with wood-paneled walls, a long, polished counter, and a vintage record player playing a pop tune I won’t admit to my teammates that I know by heart.

A row of wooden stools lines the bar, and there’s a faint hum of chatter from a handful of patrons.

A woodcut sign boasts brews crafted locally.

I grab a seat and say hello to the bartender, a weathered old dude in a vintage concert T-shirt whose name tag reads Ike. Fitting.

He slaps down a coaster and asks, “What’ll it be?”

“Whatever you’ve got on tap,” I say, since I’m not picky, and I bet he thrives on being trusted to pick a beer.

With a quick nod, he says, “You look like a lager type.”

“Works for me.” I settle in, letting the pressure of the past season—a tough one with a new team—melt away as I focus on the game on TV and the cold glass of beer Ike brings me. Only, the game isn’t exactly relaxing. By the second inning, it’s clear the umpire needs to be tossed out.

“Are you kidding me? That was such a strike,” I mutter.

“Nope. It dipped by the outside corner, Tyler. Hanging curve that hung too long,” a confident, feminine voice says—someone who clearly knows me.

I turn toward the sound, and my brain fractures for a second. It’s like running into your doctor in the cereal aisle—that is, if you have a wildly inappropriate crush on your gorgeous, sassy doctor.

Or your ten-year-old’s ice-skating coach, who’s incomprehensibly here in a small-town hotel bar instead of the city where I see her every week, but who’s counting?

Sabrina Snow flops down onto the seat next to mine in a cloud of white poof, wearing a lopsided tiara.

But she doesn’t look like the polished, pink-cheeked, ponytailed woman who teaches Luna how to execute toe loops.

With her wind-whipped blonde hair, tiara askew, and a wedding dress that seems completely out of character, Sabrina looks like she’s seen better days.

Especially since she’s kicking a foot back and forth—and I can’t help but notice she’s wearing mismatched shower slides—one pink, one orange.

“Sabrina?” She’s the last person I expected to run into tonight—especially like this.

“That’s me,” she says dryly. Too dryly. She laughs, but it sounds forced. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“Sure is.” Running into this woman on her wedding day is a wild card. Call it a gut feeling—or that forced laugh—but I’m not sure the groom is around.

“How’s Luna? What’s she up to since I saw you all the other day? Are you having a fun little family getaway?” she asks, but her voice is full of manufactured cheer.

I shake my head. “Nope. The kids are with my mom and her husband.” I catch myself before I ask, And you? Read the room and all.

But with hope that honestly shames me, I dip my gaze to her left hand. That massive rock that’s been mocking me since I met her still shines brightly, but her smile does not. Maybe she hasn’t removed the ring yet, but I’ve got a sense the bling’s on a goodbye tour.

That’s not something I should celebrate. But whether her single status is self-induced or not, I offer what I can. “Let me buy you a drink.”

She sighs with the weight of the world in that one breath. “I guess it’s obvious I need it.”

I don’t say, Yeah, it seems like your wedding day went sideways, or, What the hell happened? She’ll tell me when she’s ready. “You are in a bar, so I figured you might want one—context clues and all.”

She gives me the smallest smile. Glancing at her skirt, she gathers some material in her hands, then flicks it dismissively. “I was heading for the local rink, but it was closed. So yeah, it’s a tequila kind of day now. ”

Her vibe is more of a jilted bride than a runaway one, but I’ve seen enough movies to know the two usually go hand in hand.

I raise a hand to flag down Ike again, but before I can say a shot of your best tequila, Sabrina interjects. “I’m going to need a double.” Her voice is steady, though her expression, somewhere between dazed and exhausted, hints that she’s already been floored.

I turn to her, skeptical. “Are you sure?”

The glare she shoots me could freeze the sun.

I haven’t seen anything that potent since Luna caught Parker eating the last slice of pizza.

“I’m wearing mismatched shoes the Lyft driver gave me, I’ve been disowned by my family, and when I called out the guy I caught scheduling a blow job from the maid of honor an hour before we’re supposed to say ‘I do,’ he tried to convince me that I was actually trying to frame him as a cheater. ”

I swallow my shock as she barrels on about the next level shitshow that had become her day.

“The only thing that went right today? On the ride up here from the wedding venue, I called my cat-sitter, and she agreed to take Furby, the rescue kitten I was fostering, to her place. At least Furby will be away from Chad.” She stops for a breath.

There’s nothing funny about this but… of course his name is Chad. “But what if he took Furby?”

“Then we’ll have to kill Chad.” I grin, and to my surprise, so does she.

“Thank you. You get me.” She blows out a breath. “Anyway, she picked up Furby and now I’m thinking of renaming my ex ‘Fuck Chad.’ What do you think?”

I’m thinking, How is it possible to be more attracted to her now than I was before?

Instead of voicing that thought, I turn to the man behind the bar. “I’ll take two double shots of tequila, Ike. ”

He smirks. “Coming right up.”

As he heads to the shelf of bottles, Sabrina shoots me a curious, but worried, look. “Am I ruining your night? Is there a date about to join you? Because I can leave?—”

I cut that notion off at the knees. There is no place on Earth I need to be besides right here, right now. “I’m alone. We’re all good.”

“Me too,” she says, then winces. “Obviously.”

In the pause while the bartender pours, Sabrina rolls her lips together as if fighting off emotions. When she sighs, her shoulders sag a little.

“Do you want to talk about what happened?” I ask, both gentle and straightforward. Her day has been the worst—no question. And my goal has become to help her survive this terrible night. “Or do you want to watch the game and debate the awfulness of the umpires?”

Her lips, wiped free of lipstick, twitch in a weak smile. “Tempting. I have a lot to say about the state of officiating. But I’m starving.”

“I hear the burgers are good. Interested?”

I’m interested in erasing the memory of Chad from her mind. I have been for a long time and haven’t done a damn thing about it. Now, she’s in a vulnerable spot and the last thing she needs is some asshole trying to make a move. Even if every nerve in my body is screaming that I want to.

“Nachos,” Sabrina says without hesitation.

“With cheese. And guacamole. And jalapenos. But no meat.” She pauses, then adds, in a devilish whisper, “My mother would faint if she saw me eating nachos tonight. She thinks finger food is gauche.” Mischief flickers in her eyes.

“But I’m not living by her rules anymore. ”

I lean back, watching her, understanding more than she’s saying. From the way she says that—defiant, proud—there’s a story there, and I want to hear all of it. For now though, I’m just here for the ride. “Then it’s a good night to order extra guac.”

Sabrina smiles. “Let’s do it.”

It’s the let’s that does it for me. I’m suddenly in on this fuck it moment with her, like the night belongs to only us.

When Ike returns with our shots, I order the nachos. Once he takes off, I lift my shot glass the jilted bride’s way and say, “To the end of the Fuck Chad era. I don’t know a thing about him, but he clearly didn’t deserve you.”

She raises her glass, clinks it against mine, then knocks some of the tequila back as I do the same. A moment later, her face scrunches. “Oh my god, who let me order a double? This tastes like gasoline and regret.” She coughs, fanning her mouth dramatically as she sets the mostly full glass down.

“Have you ever had a tequila shot before?”

“No! I’m a bubbly kind of girl. A white wine fanatic. Why the hell did I order tequila?”

“Probably because of the mismatched slides?”

“They were the only thing Rhonda had—she was my Lyft driver—and they seemed a fair trade for my white satin pumps. Don’t ask why her slides don’t match.”

Ah hell. I can’t resist. “Why don’t they match?”

“I don’t know.” She’s laughing now, soft and genuine. It makes my chest ache in a way I don’t want to think about. “I told you not to ask.”

“For the record, I tried to save you from the double shot,” I remind her.

She narrows her crystal blue eyes. “No. You said, are you sure ?”

Damn. Good memory. Still. “I feel like that falls under the tried-to-stop-you umbrella.”

Those eyes turn to slits. “This is not a good moment to say, ‘I told you so.’”

“You started the I-told-you-so-ing. ”

“Don’t cross me today, buddy.” But she’s smiling, and so am I.