“It’s, ah, cold training,” I improvise. “You know. Wim Hof method. It’s the newest thing.”
She lifts one skeptical brow.
“Got to keep the system sharp. Burn fat. Boost immunity. Gotta be extra ready in case we play Green Bay next year.”
She just blinks at me.
“You don’t have Green Bay on your schedule next year.”
“Whoa, stalker much?”
“No…I just keep up on my favorite team. And a good friend.”
“Well, you never know.” I shrug. “Could be a scrimmage. Or the playoffs.”
There’s a long beat.
“Okay…” she says, drawing the word out like she’s not buying a single syllable. Then she tilts her head. “So...is there something going on between you and the new hire?”
I feign confusion, squinting like I have no idea who she’s referring to. “The new hire? Did we…hire someone recently?”
“Yeah. Faith. Luna. Whatever name she’s going by. Girl walked in here like she was on a Victoria’s Secret catwalk tonight, and you’ve been looking at her like you want to both strangle and marry her.”
“That’s oddly specific.”
“I’m oddly observant.”
I cross my arms, trying to keep it casual. “Nothing’s going on.”
“Uh-huh.” She rubs her arms and looks around. “Well, I was coming in here to grab the frozen shrimp, not interrogate a quarterback mid-mental breakdown, so...”
I grab the shrimp box and hand it to her like it’s a peace offering.
“You didn’t see me,” I mutter.
“Oh, don’t worry,” she says, backing toward the door. “I’m sure I’ll forget all about it.”
The door swings shut behind her.
I stand there alone again, freezing my ass off.
Goddammit.
By the time I step out of the walk-in and back onto the floor, my jaw is still tight, but the chill's finally fading. Not from the temperature—just from the sight of her.
The place is packed, music low and vibey, glasses clinking, laughter rolling like waves. And there she is—Faith. Luna. Fucking Aphrodite with an apron.
She’s working a big table near the bar, all curves and confidence, laughing at something a guy in a blue button-down just said. Her hair’s up, but strands keep falling loose and framing her face in a way that makes me want to lose my damn mind. That top she’s wearing? Not technically against dress code, but damn if it isn’t rewriting the rules.
And I’m not the only one noticing.
The guy at her table gives her a slow grin, then—no lie—pulls awadof cash out of his pocket and peels off three twenties. He tucks them under the side of his check like he’s trying to impress her into bed.
Faith picks up the check with a polite smile, spins around, and walks toward the kitchen like nothing happened. But I catch the tiny smirk on her lips as she disappears behind the swinging door.
My phone buzzes.
I pull it out.
