Portland Rush.
Starting quarterback.
“Oh,” she says flatly. “ThatShepherd Haynes.”
Usually, when people recognize me, there’s excitement, maybe some stammering, definitely selfie requests. But her expression hardens, like I’ve confirmed something disappointing. The drunk guy is still staring, his mouth hanging wide open.
His buddy tugs on his sleeve. “Dude, we should go,” he mutters.
“But it’s Shepherd fucking Haynes,” the drunk guy protests. “QB1! CanI get a?—”
“You can get out,” the bartender cuts in, her voice like steel. “Like I said before the interruption.”
Well shit.
Was I the interruption?
The guy looks between us, clearly torn between wanting to fanboy and not wanting to piss off a professional athlete. Self-preservation wins out, and he fumbles for his wallet, throwing down some bills.
“Sorry, man,” he mumbles to me. “Big fan.”
I nod but don’t engage further. My attention turns to the bartender, her posture rigid, her expression closed off completely. She takes one look at me and rolls her eyes. “Of course, you’re Shepherd Haynes,” she states the obvious as she shakes her head. “Fucking Christ, and I just?—”
“You didn’t say anything wrong,” I tell her gently.
Her cheeks burn red. “I literally called your entire profession useless.”
“And that we wear expensive pants!” Killian adds, chuckling from his spot in the booth. “That was great by the way.”
She bows her head, holding her forehead in her palm. “Fuck.”
I shrug. “Some days, you’re not wrong.”
Killian snorts. “Truth.”
Bishop shakes his head.
Sebastian looks like he wants to crawl under the table.
“Great. Just…great.” She exhales, embarrassed, and flustered, and very, very human. “Also, I didn’t need your help,” she says flatly. “I handle guys like that every night.”
“I know you didn’t,” I say, because somehow, I do know. She looks like she’s been handling herself for a very long time. “I’m sorry. I just didn’t want them to hurt you.”
She studies me for a beat too long, and I feel it, the way hereyes rake over my body from head to toe. She’s seeing the jersey, the stats, the highlight reels…
The money.
Like everyone else.
“Well,” she says finally, “I suppose I should thank you for not signing an autograph for the guy sexually harassing me. Low bar, I know, but congratulations on clearing it.”
Bishop coughs to hide a laugh behind me. Kill doesn’t even try to hide his.
“Wow. I don’t know what to say.” I can’t help but smile. “You’re welcome?”
She shakes her head slightly and walks away, disappearing back to the bar. When she returns a few moments later, she’s carrying our beers on a tray. She sets them down without ceremony, one after another.
“On the house,” she says.
