THE PUB’S LOUD.

Sweaty, rowdy, and packed with half the bloody campus. Pints in hands, songs shouted off-key, the rugby lads thumping me on the back every five seconds like I carried the whole game myself. I’m buzzing, grin glued to my face, but my eyes keep drifting.

She’s here.

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Leaning against the bar, talking to her volleyball mates, that hoodie still on, pint glass in her hand like she owns the place. And I swear—victory’s sweet, but she’s the only thing I’m thirsty for tonight.

I cut through the noise, pint raised, and stop at the pool table where a couple of freshers just lost a game. Perfect. I grab the cue and tilt my head toward her.

“Oi, volley girl,” I call, loud enough to make her turn. “You any good at pool?”

She laughs, shaking her head as she makes her way over. “Not really. Why?”

I spin the cue in my hand, grin tugging at my mouth. “Because I’m about to teach you. Gallagher’s victory lesson.”

She snorts but sets her drink down, stepping close. Too close. Close enough that my brain immediately forgets every single pool rule I’ve ever known.

“Right,” I say, trying to sound serious, professional even, “it’s all about stance. You’ve gotta line yourself up with the cue, steady your hand.” I move behind her, guiding her grip, hands brushing hers. The lads across the pub notice instantly and start hooting, but I ignore them.

“Like this?” she asks, leaning down, pretending she’s clueless.

“Exactly,” I mutter, and my voice comes out lower than I mean it to. “Now, eye on the ball. Smooth, steady…”

She takes the shot. The ball rattles into the pocket. First try. She whirls around, triumphant, grinning at me like she just won the World Cup.

I blink. “Alright. Okay. Beginner’s luck.”

She smirks, cocky. “Or maybe I’m just better than you.”

“Oh, now you’ve done it.” I lean on the cue, narrowing my eyes playfully. “Loser buys the next round.”

She tilts her head. “And what if I win again?”

I step closer, grin tugging wider. “Then maybe I’ll stop stealing your protein bars.”

She gasps, hand to her chest, mock offended. “So you admit it!”

“Never said I didn’t,” I shoot back, leaning just enough to make her blush. “But if I win…” I pause, let it hang there just long enough. “You owe me a proper date.”

Her cheeks go pink. She glances at the table, at the cue, then back at me. And I know—I know she’s about to play like her life depends on it.

The lads are chanting in the background, the pub’s buzzing, and yet somehow it’s just me and her, chalk dust and laughter hanging in the air. And I realize something ridiculous, something terrifying:

I don’t actually care who wins.

Because having her this close, grinning like that, cheeks flushed under the pub lights? That’s already the best bloody victory I could’ve asked for.

But still, the idea of us out on a date? Holy hell, I want that. But I hand her the que after placing the balls into the triangle. “You start, volley girl.”