You’d sent him thirteen texts. Called four times. Each unanswered ping was another log on the fire.

Your thumb hovered over his contact again, but you shoved the phone into your coat pocket instead. It was easier to hear him ignore it in person.

The bouncer had given you a once-over, then shrugged you through with a jerk of his head when you explained who you were looking for. Inside, the air was thick with sweat, perfume, and the sticky-sweet smell of spilled liquor. Colored lights sliced through the haze, painting the crowd in flashes of blue and red.

It took you a minute to spot him. He was exactly where the coach would’ve hated to see him: sprawled out on a curved leather booth in the VIP section, an arm draped over the backrest, a glass of something amber dangling from his fingers.

The bass seemed to dip for a second. Or maybe that was just the sudden silence at their table.