Jacks was quiet a moment before saying, “I remember that feeling, being team captain at FSU. Everyone expected me to have it together, even when I really, really didn’t.”
“And you can’t complain about it because, like, what are you going to say? ‘Being the leader is hard. Feel bad for me’? That’s not how it works.”
“So you . . . carry it?”
“Pretty much.”
The noise of the seating area washed around us—conversations in English and Spanish, the sizzle from the kitchen bus, a kid at a nearby table trying to fit an entire churro in his mouth while his mother scolded him in rapid-fire Spanish.
But it all felt distant.
Muted.
“For what it’s worth,” Jacks said, “I think you carry it well. From everything I’ve seen, your team respects the hell out of you. That doesn’t happen by accident.”
The compliment landed somewhere soft and vulnerable. I looked down at my empty taco basket, unsure what to do with my hands.
“Thanks,” I managed. “That means a lot.”
I looked up and found him watching me with those warm brown eyes. The moment stretched, filled with something I . . . filled with something.
Then Jacks glanced at his phone and winced. “Shit, it’s almost three. I have to be at the bar by five, and I promised Finn I’d be on time for once.”
“Right, yeah. The game tonight.” I stood, reaching for my wallet. “I’ll get this. You brought me to a restaurant made of buses. It’s the least I can do.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I want to. Consider it payment for the therapy session. Your rates are very reasonable.”
I headed for the window and paid Rosa, leaving a tip that made her eyebrows rise.
The burrito kid ran up to me, napkin in hand and sauce still streaked across his chubby face. I signed it and mussed his hair with both Jacks and Rosa smiling on. The kid’s mom waved and mouthed “thank you” as we left.
We walked away, past the gravel lot with its mismatched picnic tables, toward a shaded side street where Jacks had parked. His Honda sat under a sprawling oak tree, dappled sunlight filtering through the branches onto the worn paint. It was quieter here, tucked away from the chatter of diners and the bustle of servers making their bus-to-bus journeys.
Jacks leaned against the driver’s side door, his arms crossed, looking completely at ease. I found myself mirroring his posture against the front fender, closeenough that our shoulders were almost touching.
“So what’s the schedule looking like?” he asked. “After tonight, I mean.”
“Detroit tonight, then we’ve got a few days off before a quick two-game road trip. Columbus and Pittsburgh.”
“Short one.”
“Yeah, fly out Thursday, back Saturday. Then home games through the end of the month.” I tilted my head back, letting the filtered sunlight warm my face. “February’s gonna be brutal, though. Another West Coast swing. Seattle, Vancouver, LA, Anaheim, Vegas. We’ll be gone for almost two weeks.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It is, but it’s also kind of fun. The team gets weird on long road trips. Murph’s pranks escalate with each day away from home. By day ten, no one’s luggage is safe.”
Jacks laughed. “I don’t miss that part of team travel, the constant vigilance.”
“You learn to sleep with one eye open.”
A gust of wind swept down the street, rustling the oak branches overhead and sending a shower of leaves skittering across the pavement. It caught Jacks’s hair, whipping the reddish-brown waves across his face in a chaotic tangle. When the wind settled, a few stubborn curls remained plastered tohis forehead, bouncing with each breath.
I reached up without thinking.
My fingers brushed the curls back, grazing his skin as I swept them away from his eyes. The touch was gentle and automatic, the kind of thing I might do for a teammate with helmet hair or a friend with something stuck to their face.
