I blinked, my throat tightening at his innocent question. How would one explain my stalking Troy Hartman at Finnegan’s on Saturday night and then sneaking my way in to practice to apologize? “I used my imagination.”

Frankie cocked his head to go with his incredulous brow lift. “It’s very good.”

I shrugged.

“Want me to send it in?”

I hesitated. Because the sketch was a little too detailed to be made up and I wasn’t even supposed to be there.

It was Troy Hartman centered, his jersey number, position and chiseled features all etched out in explicit detail while the rest were merely scene fillers in the background. I hadn’t even realized the depth of it until I looked at it again. Why was I so focused on a man I despised?

There was no question, this certainly couldn’t get out. “No. I mean, probably not a good idea. It—it needs work anyway.” I slid my phone away and turned as he leaned back in his chair watching me with amusement. “Gotta run, boss.”

“Stay perky,” he called before I closed his door.

Worst. Tuesday. Ever.

By five o’clock I was ready to throw in the towel, tell Nic I wasn’t feeling well and if she could cover the last hour on her own. I couldn’t get Troy and every intoxicating feature out of my mind. Why was he getting to me so much? I didn’t remember him ever having this much effect on me.

High school was hurtful. But it wasn’t like I thought we’d get married. He was my crush and I was insanely into him, until I wanted to bury him alive. But this weekend, I met a whole new side of Troy—one I wanted to know, like an itch I couldn’t make go away no matter how much I tried to ignore it.

It was that stupid kiss.

“Where are you today?” Nic nudged me from the side.

I released a breath, knowing Nic wasn’t a simple “I’m fine” response. “I just need to snap out of it. I need to go home, soak my feet, have a glass of merlot and pass out.”

“That sounds amazing. I say we close up early, no one’s getting coffee at this hour and I’m sure Frankie won’t mind.

“Well let’s do it fast, I’m hearing some commotion at the security desk,” I warned her.

That was not out of the ordinary for Brooklyn Lines headquarters to have reporters, photographers and other media chasers stalking the doors of the building for the occasional appearance of athletes who come in for interviews or photoshoots.

“I’ll cash out, you go give Frankie the heads up we’re taking off,” I offered.

Nic scrubbed the last spot of grime off the steamer and threw in her towel. “Be right back.”