The bar smells like spilled beer and fryer oil, and the cover band is playing so loudly that I can barely hear my own thoughts above the thump, thump, thump of a nineties alt-rock song in my chest.
I’ve spent the summer training for my rookie debut into the NHL—something I’ve worked my entire life working toward. I’ve made friends I’m certain I’ll have for the rest of my life, both veteran players and the other rookie on the team. The Connecticut Wolverines. I toss the team name around in my head, feeling it heavy on my tongue. Connecticut was a bit of a culture shock for me when I moved here in the beginning of the summer. I’m from Oklahoma and I feel it every time I open my mouth and the slightest bit of a Southern accent slips out. Everything is different up here. The city life looks nothing like the back-road tractor rides I grew up with. But I like it. It’s everything I had taped to my wall growing up.
I just spent the last few weeks back home with my mom and my little brother. It felt so good to show them that I’m fucking doing it. My mom sacrificed so much to get me here, put so much on the line for me. Worked multiple jobs, never complained about early-morning rink practices or late-night gym sessions. Always made sure my schoolwork didn’t suffer because of it. Raised my brother alongside me. Everything I’ve worked so hard for, my hopeful-success… It’s because of her. My imposter syndrome hits me like a freight train every time I think about it. Because if I don’t make it here, what did she give up her life for? I can almost taste the potential disappointment in the back of my throat.
My phone buzzes with an email about tomorrow’s preseason game. I glance down at it, then turn the entire phone off. I made it through off-season training, rookie camp, and the break and tomorrow it all really begins. I’ll walk onto the ice with my Wolverines jersey on, “Larsson” across my shoulders, number twenty-nine in big white letters on the back.
I’m taking another sip of my tequila soda, trying to wash the harsh tang of anxiety away, when the scent of vanilla hits me like a truck—mostly because it’s so outlandishly out of place in this particular dive bar, where every step you take requires effort because of the inches of sticky dried liquor coating the ancient wood floors. I glance over and catch sight of dark brunette hair held up by a precariously placed pen, then the deepest honey-brown eyes I’ve ever seen. I open my mouth to say literally anything, but all I can come up with is some kind of grunt that definitely doesn’t translate into anything coherent. She looks at me strangely, which was deserved, then turns to place her order with the bartender.
I wrack my brain for something intelligent to say to her, because fuck if she’s not the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on and, nerves or not, I’m not that much of an idiot to let this opportunity pass me by.
I glance back down at her again, still enveloped in the scent of her dessert-like perfume. Vanilla and almond? Some kind of baked good. She’s wearing a denim mini skirt, and it looks phenomenal on her. She’s got to be, at the most, five-two, but it’s possible that’s being generous, because at six-four I definitely have more than a foot on her.
“Are you good?” Her voice, sharp with a slight rasp, snaps me out of my staring.
“Huh?” I mumble intelligently.
“Are you good?” She heavily emphasizes the good, a bite to her tone. I want to taste her sharp edges in my mouth.
“Yes, sorry,” I say, taking a sip of my drink to buy me more time.
“Why are you staring at me?” She crosses her arms and I’m momentarily distracted by the lacy black tank top. It’s still warm in Connecticut at the end of the summer. “Hasn’t anyone told you it’s rude to stare at someone? At least tell me I’m pretty or something if you’re going to be weird about it.”
I grin, despite her laying into me. I like it. More than I should have, probably. Then again, I’ve always been a sucker for a brunette with an attitude. “You’re beautiful,” I say truthfully, smirking slightly at the surprise on her face.
“You’re not too bad yourself,” she says, finally taking an actual seat beside me. Someone bumps into her back, and she leans into my arm. Score. Now I needed to try not to fuck our conversation up, which was heavily up in the air, considering words are very hard for me right now. I notice a small mole underneath her left eye. It’s cute, like a beauty mark.
“I’ve heard that before,” I reply, faking bravado, and making her laugh.
“Yeah, yeah,” she says. “Okay. See? I knew you were the kind of guy who knows how hot you are.” She shakes her head.
“You think I’m hot?” I laugh back, warmth spreading through my chest, and not just from the tequila.
“I just said that. Do you need to hear it a third time?” She looks incredulous.
“I mean, technically you said I wasn’t too bad the first time, which left a lot of room for interpretation.”
“Okay, well, I’m still up by one on the compliment side, so it’s your turn.”
“You smell delicious.” She lets out a delighted laugh, and I want to bottle it.
“I smell delicious? Okay, that’s a new one. I’ll take it.”
“Like vanilla and almonds or something,” I say, leaning forward and dramatically inhaling, chasing the high I got making her laugh. She leans back, giggling again. “Like something I could eat.”
“Oh, my God, do you have some kind of perfume fetish?” She feigns mock horror. “I knew it. Hot guys always have a weird fetish.”
“No.” I grin back, keeping the distance I closed when I leaned forward so now our legs are touching. “But I like it.”
“It’s very expensive. From my mom,” she says, conspiratorially, like she’s telling me a secret.
“Did you steal it from her? Is that why we’re whispering?” We are both on the other side of tipsy.
“Don’t tell her. We don’t always get along, but I miss her when I’m far away.” She says this in an overdramatic whisper. I lean in closer to hear her, because the band from the bar nearly swallows her voice up.
“That’s nice,” I say. “I miss my mom, too.” And just like that, we have a secret together. We’re just two twenty-somethings who miss our moms.
“I like a man who can admit when he misses his mom,” she says, in a normal voice now. “It’s very emotionally secure of you, which is—”
“Hot,” I finish for her. She side-eyes me with a half-smile. The bartender wipes a rag in between us, and we share a glance as we wait for him to move on to the other part of the counter.
“Exactly.” We are facing each other, her knee in between my legs. Feeling bold, I grab the bottom of her chair and tug her a little closer. She gasps from the sudden movement, a delicious blush creeping up over her nose, spilling onto her cheeks.
“I want to kiss you,” I say, surprising even myself with the boldness.
“I want you to kiss me,” she replies. I slide one hand around the back of her neck and gently pull her face closer to mine. I trace the lines of her face, her little freckle, the amber honey of her eyes. When our mouths are nearly touching, she whispers, “That was a green light, hot guy.”
“I know,” I whisper back. “You’re so beautiful, I needed a minute to get brave.”
Another blush spreads across the tops of her cheeks and she leans forward, closing the gap between us for me. I hesitate for only a moment in surprise, before leaning in and deepening the kiss.
I slide my other hand to cradle her face and press on the seam of her lips with my tongue. She opens her mouth, letting me in. I stifle a groan, because she tastes even better than she smells. A little bit like the Sex on the Beach she was drinking, but also I can tell it’s just her. Her mouth is sticky from her lip gloss, but soft underneath my lips. She drags her teeth along my lower lip, and this time my groan is audible. Her hand comes up to rest against my chest, keeping her steady beneath me.
One of my hands goes to her waist, thumb dragging along her side. I’m only marginally aware that we’re making out in public, though I really can’t be bothered to care too much when she slides her hand up to grip my neck. I shiver at the contact of her fingers against my skin.
A throat clears and we pull apart. Another girl is standing next to us, arms crossed, looking utterly annoyed.
“Are you staying?” the girl says. “Because I’m going home.”
“I’m obviously preoccupied.”
I hide a smirk in another sip of my drink.
“Sloane,” the girl whines.
Sloane. So that’s her name. I turn it over in my head. Sloane. It suits her.
“Tabby,” Sloane whines back. I stifle another laugh. “I don’t want to go home yet.”
“Okay, well we have classes tomorrow and you said, in your words, not to let you,” Tabby holds up her fingers in quotations, “drink so much that you forget you have standards and let a frat-boy attempt to make you come in a bar bathroom.”
I choke on my drink, and when I recover, I chime in to clear my name of the frat-boy assumption. “What if I’m not a frat-boy?” Tabby doesn’t look impressed. She rolls her eyes and turns back to Sloane, but I continue talking. “And I wouldn’t be attempting anything,” I say, looking at Sloane now. “I’d be successful.” That blush is back. I wonder if she blushes when she’s not tipsy, or if this is an alcohol-induced quirk. Either way, I’m obsessed with it every time.
“Ugh,” she says, setting her drink down with a soft clink onto the counter. “Tabby is right, unfortunately. I do need to get home.” Stay, I want to say. She looks disappointed when she glances back up at me, but quickly plasters on a grin. “But thanks for a fun time, not-frat-boy.” She sends me a wink before sliding off the chair.
My hand drifts out to stop her, but I realize it’s not my place to beg her to stay, as much as I want to.
“Yeah,” I say, and Sloane looks back once, with a tinge of regret in her honey and amber eyes. Then she is gone, being tugged along by her friend into the crowd, swallowed up by bodies of people dancing to the music. I didn’t even tell her my name. Or get her number. And when she’s disappeared, I am left realizing that I might have just made the biggest mistake of my life by letting her walk away.
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