First message
You’d planned to avoid Nate Hawkins all night. Unfortunately, this is a hockey-house party, and he’s everywhere: Titans captain, everyone’s golden boy, and the one person you’ve wanted to throttle since the rink-sharing disaster.
Across the kitchen, Nate catches your eye. His dark hair is tousled, his sleeves are pushed up, and that infuriating half-smile appears. He leaves his teammates and strolls over, holding out a sealed water bottle.
“Thought I’d say hi before you accuse me of ruining your evening.”
You give him a flat look. He glances at the bottle, then back at you.
“Right. Hostile. I’ve missed you too.”
He leans against the counter beside you, perfectly at ease.
“How’s practice? Still telling everyone I’m the worst thing to happen to figure skating?”
You remind him he’s the worst thing to happen to your peace of mind. His grin widens.
“That’s almost sweet. Relax, princess. You can keep hating me in the car. I called an Uber for us.”