I slide my phone into my bag and head toward the press room, still smiling. The familiar post-game questions blur together. Yes, we executed our game plan; no, the crowd noise wasn’t a factor; yes, we’re taking it one game at a time. I give the press what they need without giving them anything real because my mind is already on tomorrow.
On the Alley Tap.
On Sutton Price, the world’s prettiest bartender.
By the time we board the team plane, exhaustion has settled deep into my muscles. Most of the guys are already half-asleep, headphones on, hoodies pulled low. I find a window seat nearthe back, hoping for a little peace and quiet. The victory feels good, but there’s a restlessness beneath my skin that has nothing to do with football. I check my phone one more time before takeoff, but there’s no new message from Sutton.
It’s fine.
She’s working.
She’s busy.
I lean my head against the window, watching ground crew scurry around the plane in the darkening evening. Something about Sutton has gotten under my skin in a way I didn’t expect. Maybe it’s her honesty, or the way she doesn’t care who I am, or the fact that she sees through the bullshit that usually surrounds me.
“You look like you’re thinking deep thoughts,” Sebastian says, dropping into the seat beside me. “Game film already?”
I shake my head. “Just tired.”
“Bullshit.” He pulls out his tablet but doesn’t turn it on. “You’ve got that look.”
“What look?”
“The one where you’re overthinking something that should be simple.”
“Like what?”
He studies me for a moment. “The bartender?”
I sigh. “Is it that obvious?”
“Only to someone who’s known you since before you were a grower, not a shower.”
I flip him off for the dick joke but laugh regardless. “Asshole.”
“So how did things really go when you took her out?”
“I didn’t really take her out. It was just Food Truck Alley. Nothing fancy.”
“Well, no shock there,” my brother says with a shrug of hisshoulder. “You’re not a fancy guy. I’d have been shocked had you taken her to Alberto’s.”
My mouth waters at the thought of one of Portland’s priciest restaurants. I don’t go there often, but they have some of the best steaks in town. “Nah, she doesn’t like that what I do makes me so much money.”
Sebastian snorts, finally turning on his tablet. “What did she call it?”
“Tag,” I answer, shaking my head amused. “Though I made sure she understood it’s definitely full contact tag.”
“Right.” He laughs. “I mean she’s not wrong, I guess.”
“I just don’t feel right flaunting money in front of her when I know it’s a huge bone of contention for her.”
“Well then how do you plan to win her over when overpaid tag-players seem to be a hard limit for her.”
“Thoughts and prayers?” I ask with an uneasy cringe.
“Good luck with that, Shep. I hope that works out for you.”
I let out a sigh, leaning my head back against my seat as the plane takes off down the runway. “I don’t know, honestly. She’s fiercely independent so anything that resembles saving or taking care of her, she can’t stand. She didn’t even want my sweatshirt the other night even though I could tell she was cold. I had to basically force her to take it when I saw her shiver.”
