“I’m telling you, they’ve all lost it. It’s like his face has superpowers. I cannot work under these conditions.”
Bri raises her brows, smiling. “You know why you’re this upset, right?”
I arch a brow. “Because I’m surrounded by idiots?”
“Becauseyouthink he’s hot too.”
“Excuse me?”
“You do. You absolutely do. I saw your camera roll. Don’t even try to lie, your zoom lens was flirting.”
I snort. “I did not. I was doing my job. Professionally. Like a composed adult.”
“You were zooming in like you were planning your wedding hashtag.”
“Whatever,” I mutter, stabbing at the rice with my chopsticks. “I don’t have time for men. I practicallyliveat the stadium. I follow the team around like a glorified digital groupie. Practice,interviews, press events, travel days… When am I supposed to meet someone?”
Bri tips her head, one brow lifting while the corner of her mouth fights a smile.
“You’re kidding, right? You spend every waking hour surrounded by very hot, very fit men, and most of them are very single. You could have your pick.”
I shake my head. “You know my rule about football players. They’re in a different world, famous, rich, constantly in the spotlight. I’d be asking for trouble. What if it blew up and I still had to see them every day? Disaster.”
She rolls her eyes, grinning. “Fine, then. That’s what dating apps are for,” she says, mouth half full of lo mein. “You need to get back out there. Get some action. Recharge the batteries, if you will.”
“I can’t do dating apps. I’m too recognizable. They see my picture and start feeding me Strikers trivia like I’m going to fall in love and hand them free tickets.” I pause. “Let’s not forget Pablo from two months ago or Xavier from five months ago. Remember the trauma?”
“Yikes.” Bri winces. “Okay, valid. But, what about that new app? What’s it called… Oh, Veil.”
“Veil?”
“Yeah. No pictures. No names. You create a profile with your interests and what you’re looking for, and that’s it. You talk. If you click, youearnthe next step. You don’t see what they look like unlessyoudecide to share. It’s all anonymous until you’re ready.”
I chew slowly, thinking. “That sounds… risky.”
“It’s basically digital pen pals with flirt potential. You could meet someone who actually likesyou, not your job, not the team, not your player access.”
I poke at my food. My stomach’s full, and my brain is spinning. The idea of connecting with someone onmyterms? Without being Googled to death or baited for favors? It’s tempting. But I’ve been burned before, more than once, and anonymous or not, I’m not sure I have the bandwidth for another crash-and-burn.
“I’ll think about it,” I say.
Bri leans back on the couch and mercifully, lets it go. “Wanna watchLove Island?” she asks with a grin.
“Always.”
She grabs the remote, and I settle back with my food. The show opens with abs, bikinis, and someone yelling in a British accent, and all I can think about is gray eyes, an Irish lilt, and a death glare that somehow made 85,000 people collectively swoon.
I am so fucked.
“Okay, but that recoupling? That was Oscar-worthy,” Bri says, wiping her cheek with the sleeve of her hoodie.
I nod, clutching my carton oflo meinlike it’s emotional support food. “The way she said,‘I choose him because he sees me’? Devastating.”
“I hope I’m that dramatic when I find love,” Bri says, stretching like a cat. “Anyway, I’m off. Early shift tomorrow. Try not to fall in love with any emotionally constipated goalkeepers while I’m gone.”
“No promises.”
She tosses a wink over her shoulder and disappears down the hallway, and just like that, the apartment is quiet.
