It’s a close-up interview with Shepherd after his game this afternoon.
Same jersey.
Same posture.
Same stupidly calm expression.
I freeze for half a second and of course Cal notices.
“Oh,” he says softly, almost whispering. “There he is.”
“I don’t care,” I say automatically.
“Sure, you don’t.”
The crowd on the TV roars and Shepherd jogs off the field, his helmet tucked under his arm, his expression focused but relaxed.
He looks…
Different there.
Bigger.
Untouchable.
I turn away quickly, heat creeping up my neck.
“He doesn’t feel like that here,” I say before I can stop myself.
Cal tilts his head. “Like what?”
I gesture to thetelevision. “Like…that.”
He studies me for a long second. “That’s probably why you like him.”
“I don’t.”
He doesn’t argue, which somehow makes it worse. I turn back to the order tickets, trying to focus on something tangible. Something that doesn’t make my chest feel weird.
“You know,” Cal says, leaning closer, “normal people usually admit when they’re interested in someone.”
“Good thing I’m not normal,” I mutter, grabbing another glass.
“True. You’re exceptionally weird.”
I flip him off without looking up, which makes him laugh.
“Order up!” the cook yells from the kitchen window.
I grab the plates, grateful for the distraction. The rest of the night blurs into a comfortable rhythm of pouring drinks, taking orders, and smiling just enough to not seem unfriendly but not enough to invite conversation. It’s a balance I’ve perfected over the years.
By closing time, my back aches and my feet are tired, but the tip jar is heavy enough to make tomorrow’s bills a little less scary. I count out Cal’s share while he sweeps.
“You closing tomorrow?” he asks.
“No, opening. You?”
“Same.” He leans on the broom. “Maybe your quarterback will stop by for lunch.”
