The bar was loud, the kind of place where everyone talked like they were trying to be overheard. Russ Holliday had been there for maybe an hour, half-listening to his friends, half-listening to his own hype reel running on a loop in his head. Another round of drinks, another group of people laughing a little too hard at things he barely said. Same as always.

Then he saw her.

It hit him like a punch—not the kind that knocks you out, but the kind that steals your breath for a second. Eight years. Eight years since the Rose Bowl, since everything went to hell. Since he’d told himself breaking up with her would make him look better. More tragic, more human, more marketable. And she looked good. Too good. The kind of good that made him wish he’d stayed down when life tackled him instead of standing up and acting like he didn’t feel it.

He took a sip of his drink, pretending it didn’t shake a little in his hand, then squared his shoulders and started toward her. The crowd seemed to part for him—or maybe he just walked like it did. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said when he reached her, voice smooth but not quite steady. His grin came a second too late to feel natural. “Didn’t think you’d still be hanging around places like this. Guess some things never change, huh?”