Page 4 of Blocked Shot
“Nat, I love you, but you sound like a librarian in a retirement home. You work, you cook, you read, and you go to bed early. That’s not a life—it’s a calendar of beige.”
Natalie rolls her eyes, leaning back against the counter. “Before I even consider entertaining your disaster of an idea, tell me how your pitch went today.”
Mila sighs dramatically, and Natalie can hear her flopping onto her couch as if she’s been through war. “Ugh. Brutal. I was walking through the campaign strategy for the client, and I accidentally opened my grocery list instead of the deck. Nothing says ‘hire me’ like a bullet point that says ‘wine, tampons, gouda.’ ”
Natalie snorts. “You didn’t.”
“I did. And then I somehow spun it into a metaphor about market elasticity. Because I’m a professional.”
“Professional lunatic,” Natalie mutters, shaking her head.
“Oh, absolutely. But I crushed therest of it. Walked them through our analytics like I invented data. One guy even said, and I quote, ‘That was disturbingly impressive.’”
Natalie shifts the phone to her other ear, lips twitching. “Disturbingly?”
“Men are scared of competence, Nat. That’s how I know I nailed it.”
Natalie huffs a laugh. “Fair point.”
“Anyway,” Mila continues, voice brightening as she shifts back to campaign mode. “Enough about me. You are putting on something cute and going out tonight. No excuses. No cozy cardigans.”
Natalie exhales, pressing her thumbnail into the seam of the countertop, but her smile still edges in. Of course Mila’s not letting this go—she never has. This is the girl who used to slip extra potato chips into her lunchbox because Natalie’s mom only packed fruit. The woman who sat with her for hours after her parents’ funeral five years ago, saying nothing, just holding her hand. Who barges past every wall Natalie tries to put up, refusing to let her drown in her own solitude, no matter how much she sometimes wants to.
“Fine. One drink. But if I end up regretting this?—”
“You won’t,” Mila says quickly. “And if you wake up tomorrow morning in someone else’s bed, you’re welcome.”
She laughs, shaking herhead. “You’re impossible.”
“Damn right I am. Now go make a terrible decision for once in your life.”
“Yes, Mil,” Natalie sighs.
“Oh, and Nat?” she adds, “don’t even think about bringing a book.”
CHAPTER 3
JAKE
Jake leans against the sticky wooden bar, nursing a beer that sweats against his palm.
Fuck, what am I doing?
It’s not the first time he’s asked himself that in the past few weeks. Probably won’t be the last. He hadn’t planned on coming out tonight. He’d told himself he’d go home, maybe watch some game footage, and get some sleep. But the moment he’d stepped into his apartment, the silence hit him like a fist to the ribs. It wasn’t just quiet; it was empty.
No friends coming in and out, no thrum of traffic outside familiar windows, no history in the walls. A sterile, soulless box he’s supposed to call home for the season. And he hates it.
So he grabbed his keys and walked out—no plan, no destination—just a restless itch under his skin he couldn’t scratch. Now he’s here, hunched over a lukewarm beer bottle in a bar that smells like popcorn and grease, with nothing to show for it but the same damn thoughts looping in his head.
He takes a long, bitter pull, letting it burn, hoping it’ll quiet thenoise. It doesn’t.
He should’ve hit the gym instead. He’d been in Hartford for a week now, and it still doesn’t feel right. Nothing does. Too many unfamiliar streets. Too many wide-eyed kids chasing something he’s not sure he believes in anymore.
Boisterous shouts and laughter from a nearby booth slice through the fog in Jake’s head. A pack of young guys—drunk on cheap beer and the bulletproof confidence of youth—are holding court. One slams his glass down with exaggerated bravado, another whistles at the bartender as if calling a dog, and a third leans in toward a woman who’s clearly not interested.
What a bunch of muppets.
Irritation coils in Jake’s chest. He wonders how long before one of them mouths off to the wrong person and learns a hard lesson.
