Claire wasn't entirely sure what state he was in.
The alcohol had loosened his tongue, and the weight of his emotions blurred his thoughts. He bit his lip hard, trying to steady himself, but the last shred of his composure shattered when Ronaldo said, "I promise! I'll apologize! I will!"
Ronaldo watched as Claire swayed in place, his eyes glazed over, and clapped him on the shoulder with a laugh.
"Hey, mate, you're smashed. Let's get you home."
Claire blinked innocently, wagging a finger in Ronaldo's face.
"No, no, no. You don't understand—I can sing. Really well. I just learned a song. It's for you... and for me."
Ronaldo sighed, throwing his hands up in surrender.
Then, out of nowhere, the chestnut-haired waitress reappeared. Gently prying Ronaldo's grip off Claire, she whispered, "Mr. Ronaldo, please respect your friend. He's had enough for tonight."
"Oh. Alright."
Ronaldo watched as the woman guided Claire toward the restroom, only to freeze mid-step.
Wait. She knew my name?
Sinking back into his seat, Ronaldo took a deep breath. The bar's midnight air was thick with sweat and perfume, but he needed to clear his head. Claire—drunk, stumbling, words slurred—had somehow managed to say what no one else dared.
This year, Manchester United has a real shot. But I need to grow up. Swallow my pride. Let my game do the talking.
With a slow exhale, Ronaldo pulled off his cap, scanning the crowd for Claire.
But Claire was already gone.
Instead, he spotted him—being half-dragged, half-carried by the chestnut-haired waitress—onto the DJ stage.
---
"Hey! What's your name?"
"Do you always get this drunk?"
"Are you a footballer too? Your muscles are... wow."
Her voice was sweet, the kind that made men tense in all the right places. But Claire, too wasted to react, just slumped against her as they wobbled toward the stage.
"I-I wanna sing... C-Can you help?"
"Ooh, a handsome guy who sings? Do you have a girlfriend? Because I could—" The waitress trailed off, cheeks flushing.
Claire, oblivious, pointed pitifully at Calvin Harris, who had been hyping up the crowd for the past hour.
"Pleaaase?"
"Mmm, fine. Let me, the owner's daughter, handle this."
Leaning in, she planted a quick kiss on Claire's cheek.
"Remember—my name's Danielle Sharp."
Calvin Harris, mid-drop, nearly fumbled his deck when he saw Danielle kissing some random drunk guy.
"Danielle! You sure about this?" He yanked off his headphones, gesturing at Claire like he was a stray dog.
Danielle nodded firmly.
Harris checked his watch. "Three minutes. Then he's up."
Danielle shook Claire violently. "Wake up! You can't sing like this!"
When he didn't respond, she grabbed an ice bucket from the bar and dumped it over his head.
SPLASH.
The crowd erupted—whistles, cheers, even a few "DAYUM!"s. For a moment, Calvin Harris wasn't even the main attraction.
But Danielle only had eyes for Claire.
Instead of getting mad, he just... reached into his soaked pants pocket.
"Feeling better?"
Claire fumbled out a soggy sheet of paper—a handwritten music score—and shoved it at her.
"G-Give this to the DJ. Tell him... help."
Calvin Harris glanced at the dripping mess, unimpressed. Then he held it up and flipped Claire off.
The crowd booed. A few girls—hardcore Harris fans—started throwing napkins and straws at Claire.
Danielle didn't care. Boos? Cheers? Part of the game.
But then Harris hummed the notes under his breath.
"Huh. Not bad."
His fingers twitched, tracing invisible beats in the air. The music had stopped. The crowd murmured.
"C'mon, pretty boy! Let's see if your voice matches your face!"
"You got Calvin Harris to pause his set? Damn, you've got balls!"
Even Johnny Levis and Anya Goode had left their VIP booth, edging closer to the stage.