The tallest one, the blond, was probably six-foot-six with a Nordic look that screamed Scandinavian. He said something that made his companions laugh.
Next to him was a shorter guy, maybe six-foot-one, with dark hair and Asian features. He had an open, friendly face and was already smiling at customers who seemed to recognize them.
But it was the third one who made my breath catch.
He was Jacks’s height, six-foot-two or so, with dark hair that was slightly too long, curling at the nape of his neck. His firm jaw and broad shoulderswere matched by intense dark eyes that scanned the bar with obvious appreciation. He wasn’t just handsome; there was something commanding about him, something that made people gravitate in his direction.
And as they moved through the crowd, that’s exactly what happened.
One customer after another stopped them. Some reached out to touch their arms. Others asked for photos. A few grabbed a cocktail napkin and begged for autographs.
“Holy shit,” Mark breathed beside me.
The three men were getting closer to the bar now, the blond and the Asian stopping every few feet to take selfies with excited fans.
But the dark-haired one—he was moving with purpose toward the bar.
Toward us.
His eyes swept across the space behind the bar, taking in Mark, Benji, and me, before landing on Jacks, who had just returned with another tray of empties.
Jacks froze.
It looked as though someone had pressed “pause” on his remote control.
The dark-haired guy froze mid-step, his attention focused on Jacks. His eyes went wide, his mouthopened, and he said something to his blond teammate that I couldn’t hear.
Jacks set down his tray, his eyes never leaving the dark-haired guy. Then his eyes went wide. “Oh my God,” I heard him mutter. “That’s Skyler Shaw.”
The dark-haired guy—Skyler Shaw, apparently—was still staring but was also moving again, pushing through the crowd with more urgency, his teammates following with obvious confusion.
He reached the bar and just . . . stood there.
Staring at Jacks.
“Holy shit,” Skyler said, his voice rough. “You’re Jackson Armstrong.”
Jacks blinked. “I—what?”
“Jackson Armstrong. You played linebacker at Florida State. 2019 through 2022.” Skyler’s face was lit with something between childlike awe and disbelief. “I watched you play. I’m from Tallahassee. I went to every home game your senior year. You were incredible.”
I glanced at Benji and found him staring between the two of them, his head swiveling back and forth like he was watching a tennis match, his mouth hanging open.
“I—” Jacks’s face was bright red now. “You know who I am?”
“Know who you are? Dude, you had 127 tacklesyour senior year. You were projected to go first round in the draft until—” Skyler stopped himself. “Sorry. I’m being weird. I just—I can’t believe you’re here. I mean working here. In Tampa. Shit, sorry, this is coming out all wrong.”
“Oh, God, there are two of them now,” Benji whispered. I had to smother a laugh.
“I can’t believe you know who I am,” Jacks said weakly. “You’re Skyler Shaw. You’re the—you’re—” He gestured. “You’reyou.”
Skyler laughed, and it transformed his whole face. “I’m just a hockey player from Tallahassee who used to watch you destroy offensive lines on Saturdays. You were my favorite player.”
“I was . . . your favorite player?” Jacks repeated, like the words didn’t make sense.
“Absolutely.” Skyler extended his hand. “I know this is weird, but can I shake your hand? Because teenage me would kill me if I didn’t.”
Jacks took his hand, and I watched the handshake last just a beat too long. I watched the way neither of them seemed to remember to let go until the Asian cleared his throat.
