I pocket her badge.
Damien watches me walk toward the back like I’m violating ten different commandments.
“You’re not seriously?—”
“I’ll lock up on Saturday morning,” I say flatly. “Switch shifts with me if you need something to feel powerful.”
He scowls.
I don’t care.
I head to the locker room, peel off my shirt, splash water on my face.
My reflection looks back at me: hair messy, jaw tight, eyes energized in a way I haven’t seen in years.
I grab my backpack. What does a guy even wear to a date these days?
I check the clothes I have with me. I have one good button-down.
One pair of dark jeans.
The real coat that I bought with the last of my player salary.
Decent boots.
I’m not going to her date.
I tell myself that over and over.
Just dropping off her badge.
Doing a solid.
It’s professional courtesy.
Sure, buddy.
Whatever helps me sleep.
But the truth is buzzing in my chest like a flashing neon sign:
I want to see her again.
Just for a moment.
Just long enough to hand her the badge and hear her say my name.
I zip up my bag.
Vestry Bar at 7:30.
Professional? Well. I’m off the clock now, aren’t I? And not that I give a damn what Damien has to say, but Idoneed my job.
I shouldn’t be this excited to see her in a bar.
But God help me?
I am.
