He’s not wrong.
I toss the rag aside and grab a glass instead. The rhythm helps. Rinse, dry, stack. It’s continuous. It’s predictable. And it’s something I can do that doesn’t make me look like I’m waiting.
Because I’m not waiting.
Obviously.
The bell jingles again and I fight every urge to look up.
“You’re waiting…” Cal murmurs with a soft chuckle as he steps by me.
“I am not.”
“…for the football guy.”
I nearly drop the glass.
“Fuck off, Cal. I would rather swallow broken shards.”
“Hmm. Strong feelings,” he says mildly, a teasing smirk playing across his mouth.
“I do not have feelings, weak, strong, or otherwise.”
He raises an eyebrow, and I hate him a little for being able to see through me.
There’s a game on the TV again tonight. Someone requested it earlier, and now it’s just background noise; commentators yelling, crowds roaring, helmets colliding in high-definition slow motion.
I don’t watch.
I refuse to watch.
I’m familiar with the game and how it’s played, but I have a problem with the fact that the world is perfectly fine with athletes like the ones on the television making more in one game than I could ever see in a year. It’s disgusting and nine times out of ten, they either end up crashing their fancy new toys when they drive under the influence because they think their shit doesn’t stink, or they get arrested for assault because see reason number one about their shit stinking.
I hate pro sports.
There. I said it.
I’m not a fan.
So why the hell do my eyes keep drifting toward the television like they have their own agenda, and why does something in my chest tighten when I catch a flash of that particular shade of blue?
A highlight reel flashes across the screen from today’s earlier game. The one played in Seattle a few hours ago.
The quarterback dodges a tackle and then he throws deep, and damn it, it’s beautiful. The kind of throw that makes you believe in something, even if only for a second.
The bar erupts with cheers as if they didn’t cheer for him a few hours ago, but I look away before I recognize anything too specific. Before I admit I already have.
“Your boyfriend’s team did well today,” Cal says casually.
“He is not my boyfriend,” I snap. “He’s not my anything.”
Cal hums like he doesn’t believe me. Which is rude, because he should. I grab an order ticket and pretend it requires my full attention.
It’s busier tonight.
A group of regulars at the end of the bar argue over something meaningless which is par for the course around here. Someone drops a fork and the kitchen yells for runners. It’s a typical night with normal noise and normal chaos. And I like normal because it doesn’t surprise you.
The door opens again and my eyes flick up before I can stop them.
