“It’s a good brand.Strong.Sexy.Marketable.”
Her eyes soften, and that’s dangerous.I’m already fucked six ways from Sunday.She doesn’t need to look at me like that, either.
The server walks over.A girl maybe a year or two older than us, dressed in black jeans and a diner tee that’s seen better days.She doesn’t bother pulling out a notepad.
“What can I get you two?”she asks, her voice flat but not unfriendly.
I glance at Sam before turning my eyes back to the server.
“I’ll have a double cheeseburger.Extra pickles.Fries.Coke.”
Sam examines the menu as if it’s a final exam.“I’ll have the same, but no pickles and a chocolate shake.”
The server smirks.“Coming right up.”She turns on her heels and disappears behind the counter.
I lean back in the booth, stretching one arm along the cracked vinyl, and let my eyes drift back to Sam.She’s already looking at me, chin tilted, fingers tapping against the table.
There’s a pause.Long enough for it to settle between us.The kind that hums with something unsaid.That dares you to say the wrong thing and mean it.
“You walk around acting unbreakable,” she says, voice steady but soft in a way that hits harder.“But that’s bullshit.”
I lift an eyebrow, but she’s already moving on.
“You think I don’t see it?”Her mouth quirks.“The fuckboy swagger.The cocky grin.The whole I don’t give a shit act.It’s armor.Not confidence.”
A breath slips out of me before I can stop it.A half laugh–half surrender.
“What if I told you I wouldn’t know who the hell I am without it?”
She doesn’t soften it for me.“Well, perhaps it’s time you stopped hiding behind it and figured that shit out.”
Fuck.This girl has a knack for saying exactly what I don’t want to hear but really need to.
“I haven’t a clue how to do that,” I admit, dragging a hand through my hair, restless and exposed, because this is the most honest I’ve been with anyone in my entire fucked-up life.
“Why?”she asks, voice softer now.
“You messed me up, that’s a fact?”I glance across the table, heat still lingering on my skin.“One minute I’m teasing you, trying to get a rise, thinking I’ve got all the control I always do.Then you look at me, or… you’re on top of me, and I can’t fucking breathe without you.”
Her eyes stay fixed.She watches me fall apart, piece by piece.
“I have no idea how to be someone else,” I admit, my throat tight.“This cocky, fuck-everything version of me.It’s been all I’ve had for a long time.”
She blinks, caught off guard—but she doesn’t look away or make a joke to deflect.She sits there, elbows on the table, eyes fixed on mine.
So I continue.
“My dad didn’t see me.Not really.Not unless I had a helmet and jersey on.That was when I mattered.When I won or played through an injury.Or I dragged us over the line by sheer fucking force.That’s when I existed.The rest of me didn’t matter.None of that was worth shit to him.”
“So when you quit—”
“I didn’t stop playing because I hated the game.I stopped because every time I stepped on that field, it felt as if I was begging him to notice me.Every win, every tackle, every touchdown.It was me screaming, “Look at me, you piece of shit.”And he never did.Not really.He just nodded, told me to tackle harder next time.”
Her eyes soften again, but it’s not pity.It’s understanding.
“I thought when I quit, my old man would lose his shit, but he didn’t.He stopped showing up.He stopped asking how I was.Didn’t care when I passed maths.Started calling me soft, because I’m not killing myself for a game that made me more of a man, supposedly.”I tap my fingers against the table.“He still calls me that name.”
I pause, jaw tight.The words dig up more than I thought they would.
