All I cared about was how Evan smiled at me—unguarded and real. He'd forgotten to protect himself from feeling something.
We belted out the final chorus together, voices blending and clashing in all the right ways. The song ended with a crash of synthesizers and thunderous applause. Evan breathed hard.His face was flushed, and his hair slightly mussed from all the spinning. Fuck, he looked happy.
"Holy shit," I panted into the microphone. "That was—"
"ENCORE!" Hog bellowed from the back. "DO 'BOHEMIAN RHAPSODY'!"
"Absolutely not," Evan said, but he was still smiling.
We returned the microphones to the host and stumbled off the stage to a round of applause that felt too generous for what we'd inflicted on everyone's eardrums. As we made our way back to our table, Evan reached for my hand and wove his fingers together with mine like it was the most natural thing in the world.
We collapsed into our seats, still laughing.
I reached for the remains of my blue drink. "Remind me never to trust you with song selection again."
"You loved every second of it."
"I did not love—" I saw his expression and gave up the fight. "Okay, fine. I loved it. But if anyone asks, you coerced me."
"Noted. Your reputation as a serious hockey player remains intact."
I was about to chirp back when something over Evan's shoulder caught my attention. At the far end of the bar, where the lighting got dimmer and the conversations quieter, Hog was leaning against the polished wood, talking to someone.
Not someone. A guy. Tall, confident, wearing a flannel shirt that fit him well instead of hanging off his frame like a tent. He was the kind of guy who belonged in Thunder Bay—weathered hands and easy smile. He probably drove a pickup truck and knew how to fix things when they broke.
Hog's behavior riveted my attention.
The Connor "Hog" Hawkins, who could silence a locker room with a single booming laugh, was gone. In his place was someonequieter. More careful. He leaned in, listening hard to whatever the guy was saying.
"Okay," I said, nudging Evan's ankle under the table. "Either Hog's working on a hostage negotiation or that's flirting."
Evan turned to follow my gaze, and I watched his eyebrows rise. "If that's not flirting, I'll eat your neon drink umbrella."
The townie spoke, hands moving as he gestured, and Hog nodding along, focused, entranced. When the guy laughed at something, Hog's smile wasn't his usual megawatt grin—it was smaller, more nervous.
"Holy shit," Evan murmured. "Look at his hands, and I thought Hog was into women."
I looked. Hog's massive hands—the same ones that could crush beer cans and knit intricate scarves with equal skill—were fidgeting. He tapped his fingertips against his beer bottle and then ran them through his beard before drumming against the bar top like he couldn't figure out what to do with them.
"Well, a guy who likes that." I shrugged. "I've never seen him nervous."
"I've never seen him quiet for this long." Evan drank from his bottle. "The guy must be something special to shut up our man Hog."
The townie leaned closer—close enough that their shoulders touched—and tapped the rim of Hog's glass as if to emphasize whatever point he was making. Hog froze momentarily, then nodded, that nervous smile spreading across his face again.
"Well, I'll be damned," I muttered, settling back into the booth. "Hog's got game."
"Hog's got feelings," Evan corrected. "There's a difference."
It was none of my business, but I found myself rooting for whatever was happening over there, hoping the big guy got whatever he was working up the courage to ask for.
The music and laughter around us started to fade into background noise as I turned my attention back to Evan.
"Think he'll ask for the guy's number?" Evan asked.
"Think he already has it."
I looked around The Drop—really looked. At the scuffed wood floors that had seen thousands of nights just like this one. At the neon beer signs casting colored shadows across faces I was starting to recognize. At Juno, holding court near the dartboard, probably collecting material for her next podcast.
