Chapter 4
SUTTON
Iabsolutely do not look at the door when it opens.
Not even a little.
Not when the bell jingles, not when the cold air slips in, not even when footsteps pause just long enough to make my stomach do something stupid and traitorous.
Nope.
Not doing it.
I keep wiping down the bar.
Same spot. Over and over again. Honestly, there’s probably not a cleaner surface in Portland right now.
Cal leans against the back counter, watching me with the kind of interest that usually means I’m about to be highly annoyed.
“You know, you’re scrubbing like you’re trying to erase evidence,” he tells me.
“I’m cleaning,” I say, shrugging my shoulder as I move my rag in a circular motion.
“You’re sanding the finish off.”
“I am no—” I glance down. “Oh. Shit.”
He’s not wrong.
I toss the rag aside and grab a glass instead. The rhythm helps. Rinse, dry, stack. It’s continuous. It’s predictable. And it’s something I can do that doesn’t make me look like I’m waiting.
Because I’m not waiting.
Obviously.
The bell jingles again and I fight every urge to look up.
“You’re waiting…” Cal murmurs with a soft chuckle as he steps by me.
“I am not.”
“…for the football guy.”
I nearly drop the glass.
“Fuck off, Cal. I would rather swallow broken shards.”
“Hmm. Strong feelings,” he says mildly, a teasing smirk playing across his mouth.
“I do not have feelings, weak, strong, or otherwise.”
He raises an eyebrow, and I hate him a little for being able to see through me.
There’s a game on the TV again tonight. Someone requested it earlier, and now it’s just background noise; commentators yelling, crowds roaring, helmets colliding in high-definition slow motion.
I don’t watch.
I refuse to watch.
I’m familiar with the game and how it’s played, but I have a problem with the fact that the world is perfectly fine with athletes like the ones on the television making more in one game than I could ever see in a year.
It’s disgusting and nine times out of ten, they either end up crashing their fancy new toys when they drive under the influence because they think their shit doesn’t stink, or they get arrested for assault because see reason number one about their shit stinking.
I hate pro sports.
There. I said it.
I’m not a fan.
So why the hell do my eyes keep drifting toward the television like they have their own agenda, and why does something in my chest tighten when I catch a flash of that particular shade of blue?
A highlight reel flashes across the screen from today’s earlier game. The one played in Seattle a few hours ago.
The quarterback dodges a tackle and then he throws deep, and damn it, it’s beautiful. The kind of throw that makes you believe in something, even if only for a second.
The bar erupts with cheers as if they didn’t cheer for him a few hours ago, but I look away before I recognize anything too specific. Before I admit I already have.
“Your boyfriend’s team did well today,” Cal says casually.
“He is not my boyfriend,” I snap. “He’s not my anything.”
Cal hums like he doesn’t believe me. Which is rude, because he should. I grab an order ticket and pretend it requires my full attention.
It’s busier tonight.
A group of regulars at the end of the bar argue over something meaningless which is par for the course around here. Someone drops a fork and the kitchen yells for runners. It’s a typical night with normal noise and normal chaos. And I like normal because it doesn’t surprise you.
The door opens again and my eyes flick up before I can stop them.
Not him.
It’s a couple I don’t recognize.
I feel something loosen and tighten in my chest at the same time. I don’t know what it is but it’s annoying the hell out of me.
Cal steps closer, leaning his hip against the counter. “Okay, you’re definitely waiting.”
My hands fumble with the glass I’m drying. “I am not waiting.” I set it down before I drop it. “I’m checking for…potential problems.”
“Uh huh. You’re checking for tall, handsome, emotionally stable problems.”
“Emotionally stable is not attractive,” I snap, but something in my chest twists uncomfortably at the words.
“That is a lie,” he says immediately.
I pause, fingers tracing the rim of a clean glass. Part of me wants to argue, but another part—the part I hate—wonders what it would be like to not constantly brace for impact.
I get that the man is busy and that’s why he hasn’t come back. What I don’t know is why I care that he hasn’t.
I shouldn’t.
I don’t.
People come into bars. People leave. That’s how this works. That’s how I prefer it to work.
“He’s probably busy being famous,” I mutter, hating how disappointed I sound. “Or whatever it is professional athletes do when they’re not getting tackled or signing autographs for people who actually care.”
Traveling.
Practicing.
Existing in a world that has nothing to do with me.
Good.
That’s good.
That’s safer.
A customer waves me over and I smile. It’s even a real smile, not a fake one but only because it’s Mrs. Delaney and she tips in homemade cookies.
“How’s my favorite bartender?” she asks.
“Still standing,” I say.
“That’s overrated.”
“Agreed.”
She orders her usual and I pour it without looking. The routine settles me. Eventually traffic in the bar picks up and I get so busy I don’t think about the way Shepherd Haynes sat at the bar yesterday like he belonged there but didn’t take up more space than necessary.
I don’t think about the way he listened instead of arguing.
And I definitely don’t think about how he laughed like nothing embarrassed him.
Nope.
Another highlight flashes on the TV and this time I catch it before I can stop myself.
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 the television. “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.”
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 his forehead.
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.
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 on Images and 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.