He started singing, and the room quieted. His voice was better than it had any right to be, considering I'd only ever heard it through bathroom walls during his morning shower concerts.
"I'm coming out of my cage, and I've been doing just fine..."
At first, it was pure performance. Jake worked the small crowd like he was playing Madison Square Garden, pointing at random people during certain lyrics, and encouraging sing-alongs during the chorus. The room ate it up.
Somewhere around the second verse, he changed things up.
Natural movements took over. He dropped his voice an octave to something more raw and honest. He wasn't singing to the room anymore—he was singing through it, embracing the words as a message he needed to deliver.
"But she's touching his chest now, he takes off her dress now..."
His gaze found me across the room.
For the next sixty seconds, he didn't break eye contact to scan the crowd or play to another section of the audience. He looked at me like I was the only person worth singing to, and suddenly the lyrics were like a conversation I didn't prepare to have in public.
My ginger ale glass was empty, but I gripped it anyway, needing something solid to anchor me. The rational part of my brain couldn't believe what was happening. We were in a crowded bar, surrounded by teammates, and Jake was performing karaoke, not speaking directly to me.
Despite my internal protests, Jake systematically dismantled my resistance when his voice caught slightly on the word "jealousy," and his free hand had stopped gesturing entirely, hanging loose at his side like he'd forgotten how to do anything except look at me.
The crowd sang along, voices blending into the kind of messy harmony that only happened when people were drunk enough to stop caring about pitch. I barely heard them. All I could focus on was Jake's voice threading through the noise, steady and sure and aimed directly at the walls I'd spent years building around my heart.
"It was only a kiss, it was only a kiss..."
The memory of our actual kiss roared up in my head. Jake's hands in my hair. The taste of beer and something sweeter on his tongue. I'd wanted more and wanted to shove him against the refrigerator, tear his shirt off, and…
I took a deep breath and held it. Wanting something that much scared the hell out of me.
Jake was still singing, still looking at me. The song built toward its climax, and something in my chest rose to match it.
The final chorus erupted around us, and Jake finally broke eye contact to acknowledge the crowd's enthusiasm. It didn't matter. Something changed, and I couldn't file it away or pretend it hadn't happened.
He returned the microphone to the emcee and headed toward the bar, accepting congratulations and back-slaps along the way. I watched him navigate the crowd, part of me hoping he'd get distracted by other conversations, and part of me holding my breath, waiting for him to reach me.
I needed more ginger ale. Or something stronger.
While I processed Jake's performance, a massive presence appeared beside me at the bar. Hog was a friendly mountain, radiating warmth fueled by three beers and a decisive game victory.
"Spreadsheet." He leaned against the bar. "Hell of a show, right?"
"He's got a good voice."
"Kid's got more than that." Hog signaled the bartender, who appeared with the efficiency of someone who recognized a reliable tipper. "Another Molson, and whatever Evan's drinking."
"Ginger ale. I'm fine."
"Nobody's fine after that kind of eye-fucking in public." Hog's laugh was loud enough to turn heads, but he didn't care. "Relax,nobody else caught it. Too busy singing along to pay attention to the real show."
My face flushed. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Sure, you don't. That's why you're all red." The bartender slid the drinks across the bar, and Hog raised his beer in a mock toast. "To not knowing. I'll let you pretend."
I sipped my ginger ale and tried to find something else to focus on. The couple by the jukebox had turned their attention to the karaoke show. Behind us, someone was telling an increasingly elaborate story about a fishing trip that probably hadn't happened as they described it.
"You know what your problem is, Spreadsheet?"
"No, but I'm sure you'll enlighten me."
"You think everything's gotta make sense before it's allowed to exist." Hog's voice was gentler than I'd expected. He wasn't only spreading drunk wisdom. "Like if you can't file it under the right category, it's not real."
