The words land light, teasing — but the way she sayssnagmakes something twist in my gut. Because one of them is sleeping on my couch, towel perpetually draped over the bathroom door, socks hiding in my laundry.
I paste on a smile anyway. “I’ll leave the snagging to you. I’m fully booked on my dating disasters.”
Maya laughs and spins away toward her next table, her laughter trailing behind. But the echo of her joke lingers. I glance at the bar again — at Leo’s name looping across the screen in bold white font — and my chest tightens.
He’s news. Even when he’s doing nothing. Even when he’s just… existing. And I can’t decide if that makes me proud of him or scared for myself.
By mid-shift, the whispers have turned into background noise. I tell myself I’m imagining it — that nobody’s connecting anything beyond the gossip on TV — but the restaurant feels smaller with every passing minute.
Two men at Table 12 — jerseys half-zipped, LA Stars caps backward — talk loud enough for half the room to hear. “They said he’s staying downtown,” one says, slicing into his steak. “Bet it’s one of those boutique hotels. Guy’s probably got a suite big enough for a hot tub.”
His friend leans back with a smirk. “Nah, you heard that reporter earlier. Said he’s ‘keeping a low profile.’ Which means he’s probably shacked up with someone.”
The words land like a slap. I grip the stem of a wineglass a little too tightly as I pass by, the thin crystal squeaking under my fingers.
They don’t even notice me. “Can you imagine being that someone? Leo Voss’s live-in fling? Bet she’s having the time of her life.”
My stomach knots. I tell myself to walk away, to focus on the next table, but my feet won’t move. Every part of me is rigid — like I’m waiting for impact.
Marco’s bark cuts through from the kitchen, spatula raised. “Sage! Order on five, let’s move!”
It breaks the spell. I set the glass down, inhale slow, and step back into motion. Smile. Deliver. Breathe. It’s just noise. That’s all it is.
But the words follow me — echoing through the clatter of plates, the low hum of music, the chatter of diners who have no idea how close they’re hitting.
When I reach the bar, Maya’s refilling drinks. She glances at me, concern creasing her brow. “You good? You look like you’re about to pass out.”
“Just tired,” I lie. “Didn’t sleep much.”
She slides a lemon wedge across a glass, smirking. “You sure it’s not because youhavesomeone keeping you up?”
I let out a brittle laugh and flick the bar rag at her arm. “Maya.”
“Okay, okay.” She raises her hands in surrender, still grinning. “Joking. Don’t kill me.”
I wipe down the counter to hide my shaking hands. The TV flashes again — Leo, mid-game highlight this time — and my chest tightens all over again.
He’s out there living under a microscope, and somehow, I’m the one who feels exposed.
The dinner crowd has thinned, but the tension hasn’t. The clink of silverware gives way to low music and laughter from the bar — the kind that’s a little too loud, a little too forced. I’mresetting a table when the front door opens and a familiar voice floats in.
“Anya Lopez, Surge Beat. Table for one?”
I freeze.
The hostess greets her cheerfully, but my stomach drops like a stone. I don’t even have to look to know what this is. Anya’s good at her job — persistent, charming, dangerous in heels and a press badge. And if she’s here, it isn’t coincidence.
She slides onto a barstool, all polished confidence, her notepad and phone already out. Her camera bag sits beside her like a warning.
Maya sidles up beside me at the service station, whispering, “Oh my God, is that her? The reporter from the Surge postgame stuff?”
“Yeah.” My voice is barely a breath.
“What’s she doing here?”
“Probably eating,” I say, even though I know better.
Because a few minutes later, Anya’s chatting with our bartender, smiling too easily, leaning in just enough to be overheard. I catch snippets as I pass with a tray:players frequenting local spots,comfort routines,team morale.It’s the kind of small talk that sounds harmless—until it isn’t.
