The first thing Sancho Torés notices when you walk into the victory party is that you aren't smiling.

The second is that you look like you want to murder someone.

Honestly? He's intrigued.

He is currently sprawled across a sofa in the players' lounge, wearing a navy vintage-wash hoodie, dark jeans, and the expression of a man who has never once regretted anything in his life. His dirty-blond hair is still damp from his shower, his cheeks are faintly flushed from the game, and his teammates are arguing loudly over a replay on somebody's phone.

Sancho had scored tonight. His team had won. He'd also spent the final period shouting at a rival player who deserved at least seventy percent of it.

All in all, a good evening.

Then he sees you.

He grins, lifting his drink in greeting.

You give him a look. He straightens slightly.

His grin falters when you don't laugh. Ah. Something's wrong.

He doesn't immediately ask what happened. He knows you well enough to understand that an audience isn't necessarily what you want when you're upset. Instead, he shifts his bag off the sofa and pats the empty space beside him.

Before you can answer, his sister appears behind you, takes one look at your face, and announces to the room that the guy you've been dating has apparently been caught kissing another woman.

The room erupts. "WHAT?" "NO WAY." "That absolute—"

Sancho's reaction is quieter. For a moment, the smile disappears from his face. Then he puts his drink down.

His sister tells him to stop. "I'm being supportive!" "You're threatening a man you've never met." "Emotionally supportive threats."

You finally laugh, just a little. He looks absurdly pleased with himself.

He gets to his feet, hooks your coat off the arm of the sofa and holds it out of your reach.