We wait a minute for the game to wrap up, and then Goose sets up the table for another round. He throws the first ball and sinks it into a red Solo cup, but Ryan doesn’t look worried at all. I expect him to step up to the table for the first throw from our side, but he encourages me to take the shot. I center myself against the table, focus on the exact spot I want the ball to land in, and steady myself. The precision reminds me of preparing for a vault—except here, my skills are shaky at best. Sure enough, my ball bounces off the rim of one cup and ricochets across the living room. I chase after it in a hurry before it disappears under the couch.

“Try a lighter touch next time,” Ryan suggests when I return. He mimics the throw.

I chuckle. “Are you coaching me? You know, we’re off the clock. This is just for fun.”

He holds his hands up. “All right, you’re right, I’m sorry.”

“No, no, I don’t mean you have to cut it out—I’m just teasing you. Show me how to make a shot.”

Over the course of the game, between turns, he slowly but surely guides me. He’s standing inches behind me when I finally land one, and he leans forward to wrap his arms over my shoulders in a celebratory hug.

“Yes!” he exclaims. “Great job.”

When we win the entire game a few minutes later, it’s all because of Ryan.

“Victory!” I cheer, throwing up both hands to punch the air.

“We’re a great team,” he counters.

“That one point I scored definitely helped,” I say faux-seriously.

He doesn’t argue with me.

We relinquish the table to the next group of players and get another round of beers from the fridge. The party has gotten crowded.

“So, Avery, beer pong champion,” he begins, “I know we spend all this time together at work, but please don’t take this the wrong way—can you tell me about yourself?”

I laugh. “Like, first date style?”

“First date style,” he echoes.

“Is this a date?” I ask, suddenly feeling emboldened by the beer and the victory and the heady rush of New Year’s Eve.

His shoulders creep toward his ears, his lips curl, and he cocks his head to one side. “Maybe?” he asks coyly, self-consciously, like my question caught him off guard. “If you want it to be.”

Before I can formulate the right response—do I want it to be?—he clears his throat and rushes to add, “Or if you don’t want it to be, that is absolutely okay, too.”

“I wondered what you were thinking when you invited me out,” I say, hedging my bets.

“I…” He falters. “I never heard you mention seeing anyone. Are you seeing anybody?”