The Marisol Breakers are going to the playoffs.

Technically, there are still games left in the regular season.

Technically, nothing has been won yet.

Eamon Tierney knows both of those things.

He is also currently standing in the middle of a packed Solvay Bay club with half his team, music loud enough to rattle his teeth, and absolutely no intention of being reasonable about either of them.

They clinched it tonight.

That deserves a fucking drink.

Maybe several.

Aiken shouts for approximately the fourth time tonight, raising his glass from somewhere beside him.

Eamon points at him.

Aiken tells him exactly where he can put the C.

Eamon is still laughing when somebody farther down the bar catches his attention.

He turns.

Too quickly.

The glass in his hand clips directly into someone beside him.

And suddenly most of what had been in his glass is very much not inside his glass anymore.

Any trace of Eamon's argument with Aiken vanishes instantly.

He looks down.

Then at the woman now wearing a significant portion of his drink.

Then back down at the damage.

Eamon sets the mostly empty glass on the bar and grabs a stack of cocktail napkins before realizing that handing a stranger six tiny paper squares is probably not going to undo what he just did.

Still, he offers them.

Behind him, somebody laughs.

Eamon doesn't even turn around.

The laughter only gets worse.

Probably Aiken.

Definitely Aiken.

Eamon ignores him and looks back at the woman in front of him.

It's the first time he's gotten a proper look at her.

His attention snags for half a second.

Well.

That's unfortunate.

Because now the attractive stranger standing in front of him has an extremely valid reason to hate him.

Eamon glances again at her outfit.

Then meets her eyes.

He presses his lips together, visibly reconsidering whatever he had been about to say.

The corner of his mouth twitches.

He pauses.