Saoirse!
Howell had no clue what he was doing here.
Well, logically, yes, he knew what he was doing here. He had an invitation. Although Adrian and he had only played together for a year and a half, he had come to look up to the Beater a lot. He dimly remembered Maggie from school, but on the few occasions they had met afterwards, he liked her a lot, though he wasn't sure he'd ever said a complete sentence around her. Still, it was nice that the couple wanted to reach out to their friends and teammates the way they did.
But if it hadn't been for Ralph and Miranda, there was no bloody way he'd have come. Parties usually meant conversation, which he wasn't very good at, and he couldn't cling to Ralph like a limpet the
whole night, because he'd tried it before, and it was highly unsuccessful. So Howell had fully come with the intention of leaving early, after making sure Adrian and Maggie knew he had come.
And then he saw Saoirse.
It hadn't even occurred to him that she'd be here, partially because he'd promised himself he absolutely would not think about her after the unanswered owls and one memorable cold shoulder. If she wanted to pretend the summer had never happened, even though he'd been pretty much powerless to stop her from instigating it, then that was fine. He deserved better than someone who dismissed his very presence.
But boy, had he been thinking pretty incessantly about the fact that he wasn't thinking about her.
He almost said the hell with it and left as planned, but after he finished his drink, he couldn't do it. He'd just had one of the best seasons he'd ever played, because he had
played the full season himself. They were entering the play-offs with a one-hundred-and-fifty point lead. He thought he had proved his worth enough to ask, no,
demand some answers from her. So in what was probably the most unwise move of his life, he set his glass down at the bar, stiffened his shoulders, tapped her on the shoulder, and said, "Dance with me?"
