Barely.
Only the lightest touch.
I doubt he noticed.
But my entire arm tingled. Hell, my toes tingled, too.
“So,” Skyler said, leaning forward on his elbows, making his biceps bulge in an obscene way, “I gottatell you, man—we were out of town the other night and I got stuck watching this ESPN thing about college football injuries. You were on it.”
My stomach dropped.
“Oh. Yeah. That.” I busied myself wiping down a section of bar that was already clean. “They reached out a while back, said they wanted to do a ‘where are they now’ thing. I almost said no, but . . .” I shrugged. “It was free publicity for the bar, right?”
“Dude, you wereincredibleat FSU.” Skyler’s enthusiasm was almost overwhelming. “That fourth-quarter stop against Miami—you know the one I’m talking about?—where you read the screen pass before they even threw it? I must’ve watched that play fifty times.”
I blinked at him.
“You watchedmyfilm?”
“Bro, I’m from Tallahassee. FSU football was my whole childhood, and you were my favorite player.” He said it like it was obvious, like it was the most natural thing in the world. “I told you last time I was here, I have your jersey.”
I didn’t know what to do with any of that, so I began filling four pint glasses to keep myself from falling over. Skyler Shaw, NHL captain, professional athlete, a real-life famous person, ownedmyjersey, had watched my film, and had been my fan while Iwas busy being nobody special at a state school.
“That’s . . .” I cleared my throat. “That’s cool, man. I didn’t realize anyone remembered me.”
“Are you kidding? The way you moved? Your instincts? You were gonna be special. Shit, youwerespecial.” His expression shifted into something more somber. “What happened to your knee—that was brutal. I’m sorry.”
“Yeah.” Murph tossed the menu down and planted his elbows on the bar. “Injuries suck. We all know it’s part of the game, but still . . .”
I tensed, the way I always did when people brought up the incident, waiting for the pity, the awkward condolences, the “everything happens for a reason” bullshit that made me want to throw things.
But the guys didn’t do any of that. They looked at me—really looked at me—with something that felt more like respect than sympathy.
“Injuries are a bitch,” Skyler said. “Every athlete knows it, but that doesn’t make it suck less. We get it.”
“Yeah.” I let out a breath as Erik said, “We get it.”
The moment stretched. Skyler’s gaze never wavered from mine. Something passed between us—some kind of understanding that I couldn’t quite name.
Then Murph said, “Okay, this is touching, but Ineed to know more about these mozzarella sticks. Are they, like, fresh? Or frozen? Because I have opinions about frozen mozzarella sticks.”
Thank God, the tension broke.
The guys stayed for three hours and ate ninety dollars’ worth of appetizers (Murph alone accounted for half of that), drank moderately, and treated every single person who approached them with genuine warmth.
They took photos with fans. They signed napkins. They asked about people’s lives and actually listened to the answers. And Skyler . . .
Skyler kept finding reasons to talk to me.
Every time I passed his end of the bar, he’d pull me into conversation, asking questions about the bar or Tampa or what I thought of this season’s Lightning roster. He asked about FSU—and not just my career, but about the program, the culture, and whether I still followed college football. He remembered details from plays I’d half forgotten and brought them up like they were yesterday’s history.
It was flattering, but it was also . . . a lot to take in.
“Your number one fan is working overtime tonight,” Benji murmured, sliding up next to me while I poured a beer.
“He’s not my fan; he’s—”
“The dude literally has your jersey and poster.” Benji’sgrin was insufferable. “Erik told me. Heframedthe poster. It’s on his wall in his apartment, like, where he lives now, as a grown-ass adult.”
