Page 9 of Blocked Shot
Maybe not. But he is something new, something unfamiliar, and she has spent too long keeping to her routines to let herself be comfortable with the unexpected. Still, sitting here with him, feeling the slow thrum of alcohol and conversation weaving something easy between them, she wonders if maybe, just for tonight, she can let herself be a little reckless.
Her next sip of wine is longer, and when she sets her glass down, she meets his gaze head-on. “Alright, Jake. You win. No more overthinking.”
He grins, lifting his beer in a mock toast. “Now that’s more like it.”
As if on cue, the bartender approaches their table, wiping her hands on a rag. “Last call, guys. We’re closing up soon.”
Natalie blinks, surprised by how fast the time has passed. She glances at her empty glass, then at Jake. This is the moment. The moment she decides if she says goodnight and goes back to Jesse’s apartment alone, or if she follows him somewhere else, into something unknown.
Jake doesn’t push. He leans back, watching her with a relaxed expression, like he’s leaving the decision entirely in her hands. But there’s something in his eyes that is expectant, maybe even hopeful.
Her pulse picks up. The warmth of the wine, the way they’ve been laughing all night, the way her body buzzes when she looks at him—it all nudges her toward a decision. Her fingers graze the stem of her empty glass before she lets out a quiet breath.
“One more round? Somewhere else?” she asks, her voice steady despite the nervous energy thrummingbeneath her skin.
Jake’s lips curve into a slow smile. “Yeah,” he says, reaching for his wallet. “Let’s go.”
CHAPTER 6
NATALIE
Jake’s apartment is nicer than Natalie expected. Modern, spacious, and expensive-looking, it sits on the top floor of a low-rise not far from Jesse’s place. But there’s a stark contrast between the two. Despite Natalie’s efforts, Jesse’s apartment had a messy chaos about it, with boxes stacked haphazardly, hockey equipment thrown in every corner. Jake’s is neat and tidy but feels... impersonal. The furniture is sleek, everything in neutral tones, and there’s barely anything that suggests personality. No clutter, no photos, just clean lines and minimalism.
He holds the door open and Natalie steps inside, hugging her arms to herself. Silence settles between them. Now that they’re here, the full weight of her decision presses down on her chest, and a nervous energy creeps in. She shifts her weight from one foot to the other, her eyes flicking around the apartment.
What now?
Jake shrugs out of his jacket and tosses it over the back of a chair. He turns to her, catching the stiffness in her posture. “You good?”
She exhales, trying to laugh off the knot tightening in her chest. “Yeah, just—” She shakesher head, eyes darting away. “I don’t usually do this.”
Jake raises a heavy eyebrow, slow and deliberate, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Do what, exactly?”
She shoots him a look, part amused, part mortified. “You know what I mean.”
He steps in closer, close enough that she feels the warmth of him. His face softens, but his eyes stay unreadable. “So I’m a rare exception?”
Her stomach flips. She forces a scoff, hoping it sounds casual. “Let’s not get carried away.”
But her heart is already racing, and they both know she’s lying—at least a little.
He chuckles, running a hand through his hair. “Relax, Natalie. I’m not some creep trying to lure you into my evil lair.” He gestures vaguely around his apartment. “If I was, wouldn’t I have at least decorated the place with some ominous red lighting?”
Some of the tension slips from her shoulders. “I don’t know. This whole sterile aesthetic is kind of unsettling. Very serial killer that pretends he’s not a serial killer.”
Jake clutches his chest. “This serial killer is wounded.”
She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling now. “It’s very... neat.”
“I travel a lot. Didn’t really see the point in putting much effort into it.” He looks around, as though searching for something to say. “You want another drink?”
Natalie hesitates, her fingers pulling at the little gold heart on a chain she always wears. Another drink would help her relax, but it would also put her firmly in bad decision territory. She looks at him, the way he stands so at ease, and she swallows.
“No, I’m good,” she says finally.
As Jake moves to the fridge, Natalie wanders, drawn to the small bookshelf tucked beside the sleek flat-screen. Curiosity tugs at her, and she steps closer, trailing her fingers along the spines of the books, her brows furrowing as she takes in the unexpected collection. Worn biographies of legendary athletes sit beside a few classics—The Great Gatsby, Of Mice and Men. She spies a few more recent bestsellers, nestled between the serious reads.
Natalie pauses at a worn, nearly disintegratingpaperback on sports psychology, hidden behind a row of books—Performing Under Pressure. Curiosity sparks as she pulls it free, its cracked spine barely holding together. She flips it open, the pages dog-eared and well-worn beneath her fingertips.
