Do. Not.
I type his name anyway.
Shepherd Haynes.
Millions of results pop up instantly. Stats, highlights, articles about his college career and draft position, photos of him in uniform, at charity events, and on the sidelines. There’s even a Wikipedia page, for God’s sake.
I click onImagesand immediately regret it.
There he is, in high definition. Smiling in some photos, serious in others. He’s in a tuxedo at what looks like an awards ceremony in one picture. He’s holding a football in another. Several show him grinning with teammates and even a few with his brothers.
Fuck me.
Why does he have to have such a cute grin?
I swallow hard, and stare at the screen. It’s one thing to see him in person or on a TV across a crowded bar. It’s another to actively seek out his image like some kind of…fan.
Which I am not. Obviously.
I click on a photo anyway. It’s from last season, according to the caption. He’s not looking at the camera. Instead, he’s kneeling on the sideline, talking to a kid in a wheelchair who’s wearing his jersey. The kid is beaming, and Shepherd’s expression is so gentle it makes something in my chest ache.
“Oh, come on,” I mutter. “That’s just unfair.”
I close the browser quickly, tossing my phone aside like it’s suddenly too hot to hold.
This is ridiculous. I’m being ridiculous. I don’t even know him. Not really. Two brief interactions at a bar don’t constitute knowing someone.
And yet…
I can’t shake the feeling that I saw something real in those moments. Something beyond the jersey and the fame and whatever this is on my screen.
Or maybe I saw what I wanted to see.
He probably doesn’t even remember my name.
Ugh!
I flop back onto my bed, curling up under the warm soft covers, and then release a larger-than-life sigh. This isn’t me. I don’t google men I’ve just met. I don’t care about their lives outside the bar. I don’t wonder if they’ll come back.
Except…
Fuck.
I’m kind of bummed that Shepherd Haynes didn’t walk into my bar today.
I roll my eyes, irritated at nobody but myself because dammit all to hell…
I missed him.
And that pisses me off.
5
SHEPHERD
Winning on the road is loud.
It’s not the crowd or the final whistle, but the aftermath. The locker room hums like a live wire, music thumping through the speakers while half the guys shout over each other like we didn’t just spend three hours trying to knock each other unconscious.
