Unwelcome Gaze and a Sudden Touch
Tristan slid his hand into the pocket of his jeans, striking a lazy, arrogant pose as he swept the inside of the pub with his gaze.
His indifferent stare locked on Kora’s eyes, and for a split second her breath caught. Her shoulders jerked once, involuntarily.
“…….”
‘Why is he staring like that? Racial profiling?’
The unwelcome heat of humiliation flooded her chest, and Kora swiftly averted her eyes.
It might look like naive presumption to anyone else, but the raw survival instinct that had kept her alive in the isolated Korean-American village of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula had taught her better. She was no shrinking violet who would meekly accept slights and wipe away tears.
In middle school she had actually punched the boy who called her “Chinky” in the gut, and he had cried.
In high school she had endured brief bullying, but she had always gravitated toward the cool kids rather than the nerds. The sudden global explosion of K-Pop and K-dramas had helped more than a little, too.
Yet once she stepped onto the Chatsworth campus the prejudice had taken on a new, colder shape.
While many students here came from ordinary families, plenty of the elite children she encountered in everyday settings came from Northeastern boarding schools, European noble lineages, or the children of billionaires.
Most never crossed the line into open racism, but a few played the game with surgical precision.
The daughter of a partner at a major law firm—whom Kora had worked with on a group project only a few weeks earlier—had been the perfect example.
She smiled sweetly whenever she spoke to Kora and always lingered on the nickname “Oh, sweetie,” yet when it came time to divide the work she routinely dismissed Kora’s ideas with a wave.
She never said anything crude or lashed out, so there was nothing to fight about, only that constant, unsettling prick of being ignored.
The Lockwood family scion was no better. At the very apex of the inner circle, his arrogance was even more pronounced.
And hockey, a sport that demanded expensive gear and constant travel, had always belonged to white men.
The contrast was obvious on the football field—Black and other non-white athletes thrived—but hockey arenas felt like almost exclusively white sanctuaries.
Lost in thought, Kora had been flipping lemon slices with a pair of tongs when a deep, clean-soap voice rolled over her shoulder like warm smoke.
“Hey there, marshmallow girl.”
The scent of fresh soap clung to his breath as the low timbre vibrated straight through her bones.
When she lifted her eyes, Tristan’s unnervingly blue-gray gaze filled her vision.
‘When did he even move?’
He lounged at the bar with both arms draped casually across the polished wood, the effortless power of a man who could kill you without leaving a mark.
“Excuse me?”
He had asked for a marshmallow, hadn’t he? Why was he suddenly hunting for one in a dive bar like this?
Kora tilted her head in genuine confusion. Tristan’s lips curved into a smile, as if he had just realized he had misspoken.
“Make that a glass of ginger ale.”
“…….”
For a heartbeat Kora let her gaze drift over him beneath the bar lights—too absorbed to stop herself.
His sharply defined brow cast deep shadows over eyes that looked like they had been carved from a predator’s stare: long, horizontal, and brutally predatory. A single drop of steel-blue in gray irises caught the light like a secret.
Her eyes followed the straight line of his nose, then the full lower lip, and finally the aristocratic angle of his jaw. A subtle cleft in the center of that strong chin added another layer of raw masculinity, while the thick column of his neck—thick in the way only a professional hockey player’s could be—whispered of high testosterone and endless training.
A simple silver chain rested against his collarbone, catching the light and flashing like a warning.
Everything about him screamed masculine perfection, yet there was something almost boyish in the way his dark hair fell across his forehead.
The midnight black of it, so rare on white men, contrasted sharply with the cool steel of his eyes, lending him an almost mystical aura. A creature this flawless…
“Does the beer menu not include ginger ale?”
Tristan’s low laugh brushed the back of her neck. Only then did Kora snap back to the present.
“Ginger ale is five dollars.”
“The whole hockey team is drinking tonight. Charge it all at once when we leave.”
He reached into the back pocket of his jeans, pulled out a wallet, and extracted a black metal card before sliding it across the bar.
Every motion was lazy, unhurried, the kind of relaxed dominance that made her wonder if he ever had to try.
“Got it.”
The moment her fingers brushed his when she accepted the card, heat seared up her arm.
‘What…’
Startled, she snatched her hand back and turned toward the register, the card still burning in her palm.
American Express Black. The engraved name caught her eye and a helpless little laugh slipped out.
**Tristan J. Lockwood III.**
‘…Third. That name is ridiculous.’
It was obvious why the senior captains were all over themselves for second-years like him. Talent, money, and family connections—there was no line he couldn’t cross. Better to be seen in the right light than to become the kind of enemy no one wanted on their side.
Kora slid the card into the holder and began pouring ginger ale into a plastic cup, topping it with a bright lemon slice before sliding it back toward him.
Their fingers met again.
‘…What is he doing?’
His eyes were calm, unreadable. He clearly had no idea how unsettling his touch felt.
And yet that unconscious arrogance somehow twisted something ugly in Kora’s stomach.
“Hey, boys! Captain just opened a tab! Drink up!”
At that moment one of the players shouted, and the entire team swarmed the bar, ordering drinks like it was the last day of their lives.
The full hockey season didn’t start until October, so it looked like they planned to celebrate everything right now.
Kora moved on autopilot, dropping drink after drink in the order they shouted. A glance at the overflowing tip jar told her she would make a solid chunk of cash tonight.
‘Okay, stay positive. You need the money.’
Tray in hand, she was heading toward the next table when a crushed potato chip on the floor sent her sliding. Her knee buckled dangerously.
‘Shit! If I fall, all these glasses are going to shatter!’
Panic seized her as she fought to stay upright when a firm arm suddenly wrapped around her waist from behind and steadied her.
Breathless, she straightened just enough to turn and see who had saved her—Tristan, of course.
“Ah…”
“Easy there.”
“…Thanks.”
She tried to twist free from his grip. His arm didn’t budge.
Kora arched one eyebrow in question. The corner of his mouth twitched. Then he squeezed her side once, deliberately, before releasing her with a slow, deliberate drag of his fingers.
The lingering pressure burned along her spine and made her neck prickle.
‘What was that?’
Before she could gather her wits he leaned in, lips brushing her ear as he murmured, “You look like you could use a hand.”
“…….”
“Working a dive like this… is it even legal?”
His gaze traveled down the line of her neck and settled on the name tag clipped to her chest.
“Kora.”
“…….”
She had thought he was tall just from sitting at the bar, but standing this close she had to crane her neck all the way back to meet his eyes.
‘At five-foot-five I’m already short. He has to be pushing six-five.’
The thought that with his build he could snap her in half without trying sent a shiver racing down her spine. She forced the feeling down, lifted her chin, and met his stare.
“I’m legally old enough to work here.”
The silence that followed stretched, thick and uncomfortable.
He kept watching her like he was waiting for her to say something else.
The intensity of his gaze made her stomach twist. Whether he was deliberately trying to unnerve her or simply his natural habit, she couldn’t tell.
And the worst part? She wasn’t sure which made it worse.