Page 45 of Off The Ice

“I said she’s fine,” Liam repeated, and when his friend’s eyes landed behind me, I became hyper-aware of the arm draped casually against the back of my chair.

“I get it.” The blond guy smirked, holding his hands up in defeat. “No worries.”

And even if he didn’treallyget it, I was grateful to Liam, nonetheless. I didn’t exactly want to go off with some drunken hockey player in a bar I wasn’t entirely comfortable in.

In fact, the only thing grounding me at that moment was the fact that Liam was sitting there beside me.

His teammate got up, no doubt in pursuit of some other girl who would gladly jump at the chance to have him buy her a drink, and I sank back in relief.

Sometimes, I felt defective. I was in my twenties; wasn’t I supposed to enjoy nightlife and bars and alcohol? Why, then, did it feel like the only place I wanted to be was curled up in the apartment of some guy I didn’t know, who probably didn’t want me there?

“Thanks,” I mumbled, looking up at Liam, who was already staring at me.

“You don’t have to thank me,” he said. “I know no girl likes to be hit on by drunk, persistent guys, and Ryan is about the most persistent guy in Boston.”

I held back a shudder, grateful to have escaped a scenario like that. That was exactly why I didn’t go out. I hated having to dodge guys like that, even if they meant well. Well, that, plus the way being surrounded by alcohol and drunk people always set off my fight-or-flight response.

This brought my attention to the drink in Liam’s hand, which looked surprisingly like… water?

“You’re not drinking?” I asked with furrowed brows.

“I’m not a big drinker.” He shrugged as if it were no big deal. “Especially not when I’m driving you home.”

I shifted uncomfortably. I didn’t want him to resent the fact that he was driving me or let it get in the way of the night out he wanted to have with his friends.

“Right, but a drink only takes, like, what, an hour to get out of your system? Which means you could have a few beers and begood to go in a few hours,” I tried to justify, even though I felt immensely safer being next to someone sober.

“What if you want to leave before then?” he said.

“I can always Uber,” I responded. “You don’t have to base your night around me. I really don’t want to get in your way.”

“Cassie,” he said, looking at me intently.

“Yeah?” My breath hitched.

“I’m not going to drink,” he said. “I wasn’t planning on it, and I was telling the truth when I said I really don’t do it often.”

“You don’t?” I asked, feeling a weight off my chest.

Everyone our age seemed to, and it felt like a reprieve to find someone who could handle a night being sober.

“I don’t.” He shook his head. “I never have. I like being in control of myself too much for that.”

I felt myself sag in relief. It shouldn’t matter if he liked it or not, but it did. It made me feel safer in a way that I could never admit without sounding crazy.

“That’s good.” I nodded.

“Is it?” He smirked, raising a brow at me.

“Well, yeah.” I blushed. “I mean, drinking is objectively bad, right? So it’s good that you don’t like to do it a lot?” I fumbled for an explanation, feeling foolish as I rambled.

“Well, I think you’re the first person I’ve met who hasn’t called me boring for it, so thanks.” He laughed softly.

There was a pause before he said, “So, what about you?”

“Me?” I asked.

“You don’t drink at all?”

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