I sank into the old floral chair by the window, wrapped my fingers around the warm ceramic mug, and let the scent of fresh pastry and old stories fill my lungs.
For a moment, the world stopped spinning.
And that was enough.
I was halfway through my danish, crumbs scattered across my napkin like confetti, when my phone buzzed.
Nora.
I didn’t even need to open the message to know what it was about.
?? DAPH.
You detonated that interview. Like full-on live TV mic drop.
I snorted into my tea, already smiling.
I spoke facts.
A little honesty never hurt anyone.
Girl. You said he’s the grumpiest player in the league.
And that you’re just waiting for him to throw hands in a post-game interview.
Where’s the lie?
There’s telling the truth… and then there’s calling Kieren freaking Walker a “defensive fossil with a god complex.”
Again. Where’s the lie?
I swear, I was mid-bite of granola and almost aspirated.
You’re lucky I didn’t die dramatically on your behalf.
It’d be a noble death. I’d dedicate my next segment to you.
You’re seriously not worried about the fallout?
I glanced out the café window as a little kid tugged her dad toward the antique shop next door, face lit up with wonder. Peaceful. Normal.
Not really.
The guy ditched a pediatric cancer event.
And that's one thing out of the many.
People give him a pass because he’s hot and knows how to stop a ball.
It won’t amount to anything.
I dunno, Daph…
He’s got fans. An ego. Probably a press team frothing at the mouth right now.
Then they can froth.
I’m not losing sleep over it.
