I roll my eyes. “He’s not my quarterback.”
He grins and shakes his head. “Whatever you say. G’night Sutton.”
“G’night, Cal.”
I step out into the chilly night air, pulling my jacket tighter around me. The streets are quiet this time of night, the occasional car passing by, headlights cutting through the darkness.
“He’s not my quarterback,” I mutter to myself, annoyed that I’m still thinking about it. About him.
My apartment is only a ten-to-fifteen-minute walk, which is why I took the job in the first place. Close enough to walk, far enough that I don’t have to worry about drunk customers knowing where I live.
A car passes, headlights sweeping over me, and for a split second I wonder if it’s him, which is ridiculous, I know. Portland has thousands of cars, and Shepherd Haynes has no reason to be driving down this particular street at this particular time on any given night. So, I shake my head at my own stupidity and pick up my pace.
Two blocks down, I pass The Endzone, one of those sports bars with televisions on every wall and jerseys hanging from the ceiling. It’s still packed despite the late hour, and through the window, I can see a replay of today’s game still running because this area is nothing without it’s constant play of any and all Portland sports teams. Most likely though, the universe is just determined to torture me tonight.
I tell myself to keep walking, keep moving, but my feet stop, and I find myself staring at the screen. There he is again. Shepherd Haynes. All six-foot-whatever of him in that teal blue jersey, looking focused and determined as he calls out plays. The camera zooms in on his face—those steady eyes, that calm certainty—and something flutters inside my chest.
It’s like looking at a different person. The man on the screen isn’t the same one who sat at my bar with quiet humor and that frustratingly genuine smile. This version is all power and controlled aggression, like a gladiator in shoulder pads.
I force myself to turn away, but not before I catch another close-up of his face. The camera lingers on him as he walks off the field, helmet under his arm, sweat making his dark hair stick to hisforehead. He looks up at the camera for just a moment, and there’s something in his expression—focus, intensity, something else I can’t name—that makes my stomach do that stupid thing again.
“Get a grip,” I whisper to myself as I resume walking, quickening my pace.
The thing is, I know exactly why this is bothering me. It’s the same reason I collect chipped mugs and cracked teacups. I don’t trust perfect things. They’re either hiding something or they’re about to break. But Shepherd Haynes doesn’t fit neatly into any category I’ve created, and that’s…unsettling.
By the time I reach my apartment building, I’ve almost convinced myself that I’m over it. Whatever “it” is. This weird fixation on a man I’ve met exactly twice. A man who, by all accounts, shouldn’t matter to me at all.
I climb the stairs to my floor, each step heavier than the last. My key slides into the lock with a click that sounds too loud in the quiet hallway and then I step inside, closing the door behind me and leaning against it. The familiar darkness of my apartment wraps around me like a blanket.
Safe.
Predictable.
Mine.
I flick on the light and drop my keys in the bowl by the door. My routine is as automatic as breathing, but the silence feels heavier tonight somehow, like it’s waiting for something.
For what?
For who?
“Stop it,” I hiss as I kick off my boots.
I grab a glass of water and head to the bathroom, catching my reflection in the mirror. I look tired. Not just end-of-shift tired, but something deeper. My eyes linger on the person staring back at me, searching for…what, exactly?
“You’re being ridiculous,” I inform the person staring back at me. “He’s just a guy who came into the bar. Twice. That’s it.”
My face in the mirror looks unconvinced.
I brush my teeth aggressively, like I can scrub away the memory of his smile along with the taste of beer and bar peanuts, but it doesn’t work. Neither does the hot shower that follows, steam filling the bathroom as I try to wash away the weight of the day. I close my eyes under the spray, letting the water drum against my shoulders, but my thoughts keep circling back to him. I scrub at my skin like I’m trying to rid of every memory of the last two days. By the time I step out, my body is pink and tender, but my mind is still spinning.
I towel off and slip into my oldest, softest T-shirt, the one with a faded logo from a band I can’t even remember seeing. The worn cotton feels like a shield against whatever this weird feeling is inside me. The apartment is quiet except for the hum of my ancient refrigerator and the occasional creak of the building settling. My bed looks inviting, but sleep feels miles away, so I sit on the edge, running my fingers through my damp hair, trying not to think about football players with steady eyes and surprising manners.
I grab my phone, telling myself I’m just checking the time, but my thumb hovers over the search bar.
Don’t do it.
Don’t.
