Page 65 of Chasing The Goal
Mallory
Dakota arrived with the energy of a woman who refused to let cross-country travel dull her dramatic entrance. She stepped into my apartment like she owned it, oversized sunglasses perched on her head, her bag slung over one shoulder, and an iced coffee somehow still intact in her hand.
“I brought you peanut butter M&Ms, gossip, and exactly zero patience,” she announced, pulling me into a hug.
Shesmelled like lavender, vanilla, and a department store sample spritz. Familiar and fierce.
“Is it bad that seeing you almost made me cry?” I muttered into her shoulder.
She pulled back and blinked. “Hormones, babe. Totally allowed. You cry, I cry, then we eat our weight in carbs.”
Later that evening, we met Ava, Logan, and Jaymie down in the lobby to head out for dinner. Ava spotted us first, waving excitedly before pulling Dakota into a hug like they’d been friends since childhood.
“You must be Dakota! I’ve been waiting to meet the legend.”
Dakota grinned. “Likewise. You’re even prettier than your Instagram.”
“Stop, I love you already.”
Logan stepped in to introduce himself with an easy smile, wrapping a protective arm around Ava’s shoulders in the way that reminded you without words that she was completely his.
Jaymie appeared a moment later, nodding toward Dakota as he reached us. “Nice to finally meet you.”
Dakota gave him a once-over, then leaned toward me with a whisper not even remotely quiet: “Okay, you weren’t exaggerating.”
I elbowed her lightly, but I didn’t deny it.
Dinner was noisy, a kind of chaotic comfort you only get when everyone at the table actually likes each other. We satoutside a bustling little place that served pizza on wooden boards and cocktails in mason jars. The conversation bounced around easily—Dakota’s job, Ava’s recent design project, Logan’s obsession with becoming a grill master—and Jaymie was effortlessly woven into all of it.
He sat next to me, just close enough that our arms would brush every so often. Each time it happened, a jolt of heat zipped up my spine. I kept telling myself it didn’t mean anything. He was my friend. We were just close.
But by the time dessert came—some shared tiramisu that Jaymie insisted I finish—I couldn’t deny how good it felt. To be out. To laugh. To feel like part of something steady.
Back at the apartment, Dakota collapsed dramatically on the bed. “Okay, I officially love them.”
I pulled on a tee for pajamas and settled beside her. “They’re good people.”
“No, like, I want to bottle that dinner and use it as perfume. Cozy chaos with a sexy tension chaser.”
I shot her a look. “Don’t.”
“Jaymie is a golden retriever in a hot guy’s body.”
“Dakota.”
“I’m serious. He barely looked away from you all night.”
“He’s just… sweet.”
“No,” she said, flipping onto her side to face me. “He’s steady. There’s a difference.”
I swallowed hard. “We’re just friends.”
“Do you want to be?”
The question landed softly, but it echoed.
“I don’t know,” I whispered. “He’s been here. Through everything. What if I’m just... projecting? Needing something to feel good?”
