I might as well fantasize, right? It’s not like I have a real social life. I spend all my free time here.

Table seventeen has a big game tomorrow. So it’s a little quiet over there. They’re much rowdier on actual game nights. After a win, they drink beer by the pitcher. And after a loss, they also order shots.

But there are more wins than losses. Moo U is a hockey school, and our guys have brought home more league pennants than any other team in the Hockey East conference. And this year could be big. The team looks great. They could go all the way to the Frozen Four.

They’re decent tippers, too. Especially for college boys.

“Tell you what,” Carly says. “All my other tables are gone. And since you can’t stop watching the hockey players, how about you tip me forty bucks and you can close ‘em out in my place? You know you want to.”

“Forty bucks?” I yelp. “They’re not drinking tonight. I’ll be lucky to break even on that deal.”

“But I’m giving you my eye candy! Duh. And besides—they just ordered two pitchers of beer. It’s someone’s birthday.” Carly chirps. “Weston’s I think.”

“Weston’s birthday,” I say stupidly.

“Yup!” She holds out her hand. “Now pass me forty bucks, and bring the tattooed hottie his birthday beer. You know you want to,” she repeats.

My glance travels, unbidden, to the strapping defenseman at the head of the table. The one whose smile makes my heart go pitter-patter. And now I know when his birthday falls. That will come in handy when we’re married.

“Earth to Abbi! Are you going to let me go off shift, or what?”

“Fine,” I say, digging two twenties out of my apron and passing them to her. “Go already.”

"Give Weston my love,” she says with a smirk. “Along with the big moony eyes you always give him.”

“I don't give anyone moony eyes.”

"Just keep telling yourself that.” She winks, tosses her ponytail, and leaves for the night.

Weston must be turning twenty-one, or maybe twenty-two, if he played junior hockey before college. I’m surprised he’s celebrating his birthday so quietly with his teammates. It’s not unusual for Weston to show up here with a girl on his arm. Or on his knee. Or anywhere on his person, really.

It’s a different girl every time. He’s a player in every sense of the word. The women always seem happy to be his girl of the hour, though. There’s always a lot of giggling at table seventeen when Weston has female company.

He likes them giggly. That’s his type, I guess.

I really have no chance at all.

The bartender wakes me from this daydream by setting two pitchers on the bar, then knocking his knuckles against the wood. Twice. “Carly around?” he calls to me.

“I’ve got it,” I say, darting over to load the beer onto a tray. I carry the pitchers and a stack of glasses to table seventeen.