The next day arrived with a dull thud as I made my way out of the International Relations lecture hall, running right into Sabrina. Tension hung in the air like a storm, and I could feel it brewing as I braced for the sharp edge of her sarcasm. “You looked a little lost in there, Richie. Was Professor Burke not speaking slowly enough for you?” Ah, there it was—the inevitable barb she always hurled my way. I rolled my eyes theatrically. “Right, because that means I’m just stupid. Nice one.” I didn’t even bother to ask her to stop calling me Richie; that ship had long sailed. Sabrina had tagged me as the spoiled, clueless "Richie-Rich" type the moment we met, and she had no intention of letting that mistaken impression go. Yet, somehow, that didn’t stop her from sleeping with me, did it? “So, which poor freshman gets the honor of writing your paper this time?” she asked sweetly, a smirk playing on her lips. “You must have a whole roster of them on speed dial. I assume one of them even helped you with the LSATs, right?” I stopped on the top step of the entrance, caught between indignation and amusement. Sure, I could brush off her taunts, but there are boundaries to everything. “Let me guess—it eats you alive that I scored two points higher than you, huh?” Her nostrils flared, and I could see that my words hit their mark. But Sabrina was quick to recover. “Probably because you paid someone else to take the test for you. Wouldn’t be surprised if that’s how you roll.” “Keep telling yourself that, sweetheart. Whatever helps you sleep at night.” She tossed her mane of dark hair over her shoulder, looking as self-satisfied as ever. “I sleep just fine, thank you. Knowing I’ve actually earned my grades leads to a very restful existence. You should try it sometime.” This jab gnawed at me, tightening my mouth into a frown. Yet, I refused to take the bait. I was done playing her games; she had been tossing this nonsense at me since sophomore year, and honestly, I was exhausted. “Enjoy the rest of your day, Sabrina.” I shrugged off her words like a heavy coat and descended the steps, my mind already wandering to the next annoyance I had to deal with: my mandatory visit to Hastings Elementary for my first practice with the kids' hockey team. Go Hurricanes. As I drove into town, the ten-minute journey felt like a torturous march through a gauntlet of resentment. I cursed O’Shea under my breath for saddling me with this volunteer gig. Honestly, I began to wonder if voodoo dolls were a thing, and how fun it would be to stab a tiny one crafted in Frank O’Shea’s likeness. Picture him slowly deflating under the relentless poking of a thousand sewing needles—a stress ball that kept my anger in check. At a red light, I shot off a quick text to my teammate Fitzy: *Hey, do u know how 2 make a voodoo doll?* His reply only came once I stepped out of my car at the small arena by the school. Him: I’d think u were fcking with me, but the question is stupid enuff to feel legit. No idea how to make v-doll. Can prolly use any old doll? Challenge will be finding a voodoo witch to link it to your target. Me: That makes sense. Him: Does it?? Me: Voodoo implies magic, hexes, etc. I don’t think any doll would work. Otherwise, every doll is a v-doll, right? Him: Right. Me: Anyway. Thx. Thought u might know. Him: Why the fuck would *I* know? Me: Ur into all those fantasy role-play games. U know magic. Him: I’m not Harry Potter, ffs. Me: HP is a nerd. Ur a nerd. Ergo, ur a boy wizard. He responded with a middle finger emoji before adding, *Bday beers at Malone's 2nite. U still down?* Me: Yup. Him: C U ltr. I tucked my phone away, letting my thoughts drift to that celebration waiting at the end of another long day. A birthday bash would be my treasure for enduring the afternoon coaching kids. As I entered the rink, the chill of the air felt like a familiar embrace. I inhaled deeply, readying myself for the task ahead as I shifted my duffel to my opposite shoulder and strolled to the home team bench. A tall figure clad in a red sweater and scuffed black hockey skates was consulting a clipboard—a clear sign he was in charge. “Di Laurentis?” He extended a hand with a friendly grin. “Doug Ellis. Nice to meet you, kid. I caught your Frozen Four game on TV in April. You played well.” “Thanks,” I replied, gesturing toward the empty ice. I was ten minutes early like O’Shea ordered me to be. “Where are the kids?” “In the locker room. They should be out soon.” He set the clipboard down along the bench. “Chad fill you in on what’s expected?” “Not really,” I admitted. Between O’Shea’s cryptic instructions and Coach Jensen being in the dark about my involvement, I didn’t have high hopes for clarity. Ellis shrugged, “Not complicated. We kick off every practice with thirty minutes of drills, then we divide into a thirty-minute scrimmage split into three ten-minute periods. The boys give it their all. Good kids, full of talent and eagerness to improve.” “That’s good to know.” “They loved Kayla—” he noted, but I gave him a blank stare. “Your predecessor.” Oh, right—the girl who caught mono and had to bail. “She worked mainly with the offense. Did a terrific job, but honestly, I’m glad to have a defenseman now. A few boys struggle with their defensive zone play. I’d like for you to focus on them.” We exchanged a few more details about my responsibilities, along with a warning about refraining from using any foul language around the kids and keeping my hands to myself. “Got it—keep it PG and don’t touch ‘em. Anything else?” “Nah, you’ll pick up the rest as you go.” By the end of our conversation, Ellis had already begun to earn my respect. He truly cared for those kids, talking about them with a sincerity that warmed me to my core. When the boys came barging out of the locker room, their enthusiasm roaring to life, my admiration only grew. They greeted Ellis with joy, as if he were their long lost hero, and I was pleased to learn he was their gym teacher too. Even if he lost his job, he’d never abandon this team—or the eighth-grade girls’ volleyball team he also coached, it turns out. I dropped onto the bench, kicked off my Timberlands, and slipped into the Bauer skates I had packed away. Just as I hopped the ledge to join Ellis and the kids, the boys donned red practice jerseys while others suited up in black. Ellis introduced me, and they oohed and aahed as he bragged about my Frozen Four victories. By the time we set up our first drill, each kid was practically climbing over the other just to get my attention. And let me tell you—I had a blast from the moment the first whistle blew. Their excitement for the game rekindled memories of my childhood, reminding me of the thrill I felt tying up my skates and gliding down the ice. The energy was infectious. When Ellis blew the whistle signaling it was time for a scrimmage, I felt bittersweet; I wanted to keep drilling with them. Just before the shift, I had been helping a seventh-grader named Robbie, and the wrist shot he had managed to get past the goalie was pure magic. I wanted to witness him do it again, but now it was time to let them translate their newly acquired knowledge into action. As both refs and coaches, Ellis and I called out penalties, offered tips, and provided guidance throughout the thirty-minute game. It flew by far too quickly for my taste. I could have stayed out there forever, but before I knew it, Ellis was signifying the end of the scrimmage and motioning for everyone to come together. My chest tightened as he addressed each kid individually, highlighting one thing they did right during practice. Each boy’s face lit up with pride under the praise, and by the time Ellis completed his rounds, I felt utterly charmed. *Damn, he’s an incredible coach.* After practice wrapped up, we followed the excited kids to the locker room, assisting them in sorting their gear. They were rambunctious, filled with laughter and playful banter as they switched back into street clothes. Outside the locker room, parents waited, and vending machines lined the hallway. Yet, one child lingered behind, tying his skates back on. “Whatcha doing, kid?” I asked Robbie. The boy jumped slightly, unprepared to find me waiting. “Oh. I get an extra thirty minutes to skate.” Defensiveness brushed his tone. “Coach knows.” Knowing not to take a thirteen-year-old’s word at face value, I slipped out to track down Ellis, who was busy stocking sticks in the equipment room. “What’s this about Robbie staying behind to skate?” I inquired. Ellis shot a glance toward the door. “It’s fine. I’m heading back out there shortly to supervise him. Tell him not to step on the ice until I’m there.” Confusion clouded my expression. “Why does he get the extra ice time?” “His mother doesn’t get off work until four-thirty on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and they live in Munsen. The school bus isn’t an option.” He huffed, a hint of annoyance evident. “Some bullshit about town boundaries making some kids ineligible for transportation. Robbie’s mother got him enrolled here because he contributes to our hockey program, but the school district doesn’t seem to care about securing safe transport for kids living out of district.” “So Robbie just hangs around the arena until she arrives?” I pressed. Ellis nodded. “We set this up with Julia at the season's start. I stick around after practice to keep an eye on him and his sister until she arrives.” God, how much did I admire this man? “I’ll stick around too,” I decided. “I was showing Robbie wrist shots before practice ended. It’d be great to finish the lesson.” His expression shifted to surprise and respect. “I bet he’d love that. Thank you, kid.” Back on the rink, I found Robbie skating lazy circles, his dirty blonde hair dancing in the wind behind him. As I walked toward him, I made a mental note to address that mane of his before it transformed into a full-on mullet. But before I could reach him, I was interrupted by a high-pitched voice that sent me halting. “Who are you?” I turned to see a small elfin figure perched in the bleachers. No, it wasn’t a fairy; it was a girl, but she looked like she belonged in a Pixar movie. Huge blue eyes dominated her face, while her nearly white hair framed her tiny pink mouth. “Who are you?” I shot back, arching an eyebrow. “I asked you first,” she retorted. Holding back a grin, I climbed up to her row. I glanced at the rink, seeing Robbie glide effortlessly, while Ellis stood at the boards keeping an eye on him. I plopped down next to the cartoon-like girl. “I’m Dean. The new assistant coach of the Hurricanes.” Her big eyes scrutinized me, as if assessing whether I was for real. “I’m Dakota,” she finally said, pointing a thin finger toward the ice. “That’s my brother.” “Ah. You’re Robbie’s little sister.” “Who says I’m the little one?” she challenged, puffing up her chest. “Maybe I’m his big sister.” “Kid, I’d be surprised if you’re not still in diapers.” “I do not wear diapers!” she exclaimed, cheeks turning red. “I’m ten,” she declared haughtily. I put a hand over my mouth in mock shock. “Holy sh—sugar. You’re practically an old lady then.” This made her giggle. “I am not. How old are you?” “Twenty-two.” Her jaw dropped. “That’s old.” “I know, right? I should probably start planning my funeral. Who do you think I should leave my fortune to in my will—the chick from the Hunger Games or the one from Divergent?” “They’re not real people,” she replied matter-of-factly. I feigned innocence. “Are you sure? I swear I saw Katniss walking down the street the other day.” “You’re lying.” “Yup, you caught me.” I gestured at her pink spiral notebook resting on her lap. “Whatcha doing?” She pouted. “Homework. Mrs. Klein said to write a whole page about what I’m thankful for this Thanksgiving.” “Mrs. Klein sounds like a monster,” I joked. Dakota giggled again. “Naw, she’s okay. She ordered pizza for the whole class once after we aced our literary test.” “Literacy,” I corrected. She waved her hand like it didn’t matter. “Whatever.” A grin broke free. “All right, let’s not waste time.” I opened her notebook to a fresh page. “Let’s figure out what you’re thankful for.” Her face lit up with excitement. “You’re going to help me with my homework?” “Sure, why not? Twenty more minutes to kill until your mom arrives. What else are we gonna do?” --- Meanwhile, I could feel a sense of dread building in Allie's stomach as she sat in the passenger seat of Megan’s car. Dean’s name lit up her phone, and she wasn’t surprised—she had been bracing for another one of his lustful texts all day. But tonight, he threw her a curveball. Him: A bunch of us r at Malone’s 2nite for Fitzy’s bday. Join us if u feel like it. Megan glanced over, curiosity piqued. “Who’s texting you? And please don’t say Sean.” “No, it’s not Sean. It’s one of Garrett’s friends,” Allie replied, keeping it vague. “A bunch of the hockey guys are at Malone’s for someone’s birthday. He says we’re welcome to join.” “Is Hannah there?” Allie shook her head. “She’s at rehearsal tonight.” Like Allie, Hannah was also busy preparing for a major project. She was a music major set to perform an original song for the department’s winter showcase. Megan didn’t seem to think it odd that Allie was being invited out with the hockey crowd without Hannah, not saying a word about it. “Let’s do it,” she finally said. “Are you serious?” Allie exclaimed, surprised. They had spent over thirty minutes debating options for their girls’ night out but had settled on grabbing a late bite at the diner in Hastings. Malone’s had been the bar in the early discussions, but Meg had vetoed it. “I thought you didn’t want to deal with the whole bar scene tonight.” Megan pushed her bangs out of her eyes. “Changed my mind. I think I’m in the mood to be surrounded by cute boys.” “Really?” Allie raised an eyebrow. “What about the new boyfriend? Is there trouble in paradise already?” Megan had been oddly secretive about the new guy she was dating, and Allie had only the bare minimum of details. Normally, she was chatty—this time, silence reigned. “No, we’re fine. Well, not really.” Megan hesitated. “It’s complicated.” “Okay, spill. What’s wrong with him?” “Nothing’s wrong with him.” “Bullshit. There has to be something, or you wouldn’t be hiding him from the rest of us. So what is it? Does he have a weird mole taking up his entire face or maybe a penchant for setting barns on fire?” “Thirty-seven,” she blurted out. Allie's eyebrows shot up. “Oh. Wow. That’s…” Old, she wanted to say, but she lived by the age-is-just-a-number philosophy. She couldn’t judge. But thirty-seven did seem a bit older. “Oh wow,” Allie replied cautiously. “See? This is why I didn’t tell you guys. I knew you’d be all judgy.” “I’m not judging. Just surprised.” Megan relaxed a little, and Allie pressed on. “Tell me more about Mr. Thirty-Seven,” she urged. “I promise, no judgment here.” Megan finally opened up more. “His name’s Trevor. He’s a pediatric surgeon at Boston General.” Impressed, Allie nodded. “Okay, I’m listening.” “He’s divorced with a five-year-old daughter.” Oh. That changed things. “And you’re okay with that?” Megan sighed, “That’s the problem. I wasn’t even thinking that far ahead. Trevor and I met online and had been chatting all through September, but we only met in person a month ago. He’s sweet, smart, gorgeous, and easy to talk to. But we’re still in those early relationship stages—more casual than serious.” She nervously tapped her nails against the steering wheel. “When I saw him last weekend, he said he wants me to meet his daughter.” Eek. “Eek,” Allie echoed aloud. “I know, right? Now, I’m second-guessing the whole thing. What if she hates me? Or worse, what if she loves me, and then me and her dad break up, and this poor kid ends up traumatized?” “She won’t fall in love with you after one meeting,” Allie reassured her. “But yeah, I agree—it is a big deal.” As they approached an intersection one block from Hastings’ main street, Megan paused. “I told him I’d let him know on Friday when I see him, but I’m so confused. I don’t know what to do.” She took a deep breath. “If we go to Malone’s, can you DD on the way home? I might want something stronger than soda.” “No problem,” Allie replied, relieved. She wasn’t planning on drinking tonight anyway; she had a rehearsal at seven a.m., and a hangover would make it harder to cry on cue. “Should we go to another bar, though?” Allie asked hopefully. “Maybe the one in Munsen?” “Why would we do that?” “Because the hockey crowd can get pretty rowdy.” “I could use a little rowdy,” Megan admitted. “Trevor is great, but he’s not that much into partying anymore. He’s in bed by ten every night. Even on weekends.” She pouted, reflecting on their circumstances. “Maybe that’s another reason I should end it, huh?” “Look, I’d never tell you what to do,” Allie spoke gently. “And I’m not saying you should break up with someone just because their party days are behind them. But it’s your senior year of college, hon. You shouldn’t be going to bed at ten if you don’t want to. You should soak in this last year of freedom, in this bizarre place where you’re an adult but still not quite there. Trust me, save the early bedtimes for next year when you step into adulthood.” A pensive expression crossed Megan’s face; Allie could tell she was soaking in her words, hoping for clarity. God knew she had tough choices ahead too: breaking things off with Sean, defining her acting career, stepping into a bar filled with the guy she had a one-night stand with. Shit, what was she doing? Nothing good could come from seeing Dean again tonight. At best he would flirt and annoy her, at worst something would slip out, and the truth about their encounter would be revealed. Malone’s was the only game in town; it had become a local and Briar favorite. If you dared to show up after nine, standing room only awaited. When Allie and Megan arrived at Malone’s at ten-thirty, it felt as though they had stepped into a sauna brimming with sweaty bodies. The main room bulged with people, and Allie couldn’t even spot the bar through the swarming crowd. “I want to order a drink!” Megan shouted over the din of music thumping through the speakers. Before they could forge ahead, a familiar voice cut through the noise. “Allie-Cat! Over here!” Dean waved at her from a large booth to their right. How the hell had he spotted her in this sea of bodies? She hadn’t even texted him to let him know they were coming—he either had extraordinary Spidey senses or had been watching the entrance like a creeper. Megan and Allie linked arms to avoid being separated and weaved through the crowd. The scent of cheap perfume assaulted Allie’s nose, before she got a whiff of something far more potent from the guy next to her. She nearly gagged, the urge to tell him and his Axe body spray to ease up before someone passed out creeping into her thoughts. “Look, Fitzy, girls!” Dean announced as they reached the booth, turning to the guys gathered around a large table. “Quick, make room for them before they disappear!” Laughter erupted around them, and Allie noted the smiles exchanged among the guys, particularly one who’d been on her radar since a few hockey parties Hannah had dragged her to. His name was Colin, but everyone referred to him as Fitzy. A hefty guy with messy brown hair and a scruffy beard, he had a tattoo peeking out from under his shirt; Allie bet he had full sleeves. The guys all made room for them, and before long, Megan found herself next to a buzz-cut guy who introduced himself as Hollis. Allie squeezed in next to Tucker, who appeared glued to his smartphone, and Pierre, the French-Canadian hockey player, who gave her a dimpled smile. Two players she didn’t recognize rounded out the group, and in his accent, Pierre introduced them as Wilkes and Ekberg. Dean, who sat directly across from Allie, wiggled his eyebrows theatrically when their eyes met. “You made it! Didn’t think you would.” “We were in the neighborhood,” Allie replied casually. “Glad you joined because this was turning into a total sausage fest. Seriously, the birthday boy didn’t invite a single girl tonight.” “Fitzy is allergic to women,” hollered Hollis, the guy beside Megan, who snickered at his own joke, making Fitzy roll his eyes. “I didn’t realize wanting a guys’ birthday celebration was such a crime,” Fitzy responded, his tone not even slightly defensive. “Did you even contemplate the implications?” Dean shot back, a mischievous grin on his face. “What about the time-honored birthday blowjob? You can’t expect one of us to perform that!” “I’m sure Pierre’s down,” Hollis playfully suggested as Pierre shot him a glare and raised his middle finger in response. “What?” Hollis smirked. “I thought that’s what you guys did up in Quebec, no? Blow your buddies while whispering sweet French nothings?” Pierre’s laugh rang through the busy bar. “You’re from San Francisco. I’m pretty sure that’s the true blow-your-buddies capital of the world.” The banter continued as a frazzled waitress swooped in to take their orders. Megan requested a vodka cranberry, while Allie opted for a simple glass of water. “Water?” Dean chortled as the waitress dashed off. “You sure you don’t want anything else, baby doll? Maybe... hmm... how about tequila? I always pictured you as a tequila girl.” I narrowed my eyes at him, irritation prickling my skin, but thankfully, nobody else seemed to care about Dean's comment. Why would they? It wasn’t as if any of them were aware that tequila had led her to tumble into bed with Dean. The only one who did was Dean, who had sworn not to spill a word about it. Yet still, his tiny smirk made her uneasy. Why did she have a nagging feeling like he was on the verge of spilling the secret? --- And with that wild mix of emotions gnawing at both Allie and Dean, the stage was set for a night that neither of them could have anticipated—a collision of worlds, a tangle of memories, and an undeniable spark that refused to be snuffed out. The bar pulsated around them, and everything shifted with one mere glance.