Killian Cross

The bar was alive with celebration. The scent of spilled beer and victory lingered in the air as I leaned back against the worn leather booth, my frame relaxed, but my eyes still sharp. My team had just secured a win, and the drinks were flowing freely. Laughter echoed around me as the guys soaked in the high of competition, their jerseys still clinging to the remnants of sweat and effort.

I smirked as one of the rookies tried—and failed—to keep up with the veterans. It was entertaining, sure, but my mind wasn’t completely in the game. Hadn’t been for a while. Not since her.

Then, like the universe had a sick sense of humor, I heard it—her voice.

Isabella.

That name had no business sticking in my head the way it did. But damn if it didn’t make my pulse shift every time I heard it.

She walked in with Gracie—her friend, who also happened to be dating one of my teammates. I’d seen Isabella around plenty of times, long enough to know I had no business looking at her the way I did. But that never stopped me.

My jaw flexed as I watched her shake off the cold, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. Her laughter slipped through the noise, soft and unintentional, but I caught it anyway. Like a melody I shouldn’t be so attuned to. She had no idea. No idea how often I caught myself watching her, or how my grip on my beer tightened every damn time she smiled at someone that wasn’t me.

“Looks like someone just walked in and stole the captain’s attention,” one of the guys teased, nudging me with an elbow.

I didn’t even bother denying it. Instead, I took a slow sip of my drink, a smirk tugging at my lips. “Shut up and drink your beer, rookie,” I shot back, keeping my voice casual.

But my gaze? It stayed locked on Isabella, like she was the next play I needed to execute flawlessly.

And I hated losing.