“This face,” he says, “is going to get me laid after I finish my beer.”

I just shake my head and relax into the booth were sitting at. “Good thing you rubbed baby oil on it, then.” Personally, I hate the lingering feeling of the damn oil. I’d just as soon forget the whole day.

But even as I have the thought, I know it’s a lie. Once the photoshoot got going, when it had been just me and Chess, it had been… I don’t even know how to explain it. Different.

For a small while, I’d stopped thinking about my job, about the various aches and pains plaguing my body, about the press, the team’s record, winning, losing. I’d stopped thinking about anything, really. Somehow, Chess had done what I’ve only been able to accomplish on the field; she got me to focus solely on the moment.

Now it’s over. My time with the combative Ms. Chester Copper is done. I’m used to people drifting in and out of my world. I meet new faces almost on a daily basis. So I shouldn’t feel any sense of loss.

I do, though. But why do I?

I’d blame it on attraction. But I’m attracted to women on a daily basis too. Truth is, I’ve felt off and alone since the thing with Britt. Which is something I really don’t want to think about. Ever.

I’m frowning when the waitress sets a heaping platter of smoked oysters on the table. “Here you boys go.” She adds a basket of hush puppies and another basket of fried shrimp to the mix. “Can I get y’all anything else?”

Her smile is wide and accommodating, and it pisses me off that I instantly wonder if she’s flirting, that I’ve trained myself to immediately second-guess everyone’s motives.

“We’re good,” I tell the woman.

Her smile fades a bit then comes back brighter. “Well, holler if you need me. For anything at all.”

Jake tucks into the food as she walks away.

“Was she flirting?” I ask him, as soon as she’s out of hearing range.

“Why?” He sucks down an oyster. “Did you want her to be?”

“No.” I run a hand over my hair. “I just can’t tell anymore.”

Hunched over his food, Jake looks up at me. “Messes with your head, doesn’t it?”

Relief that I don’t sound like a pompous asshole floods me. “Yeah, it does.”

“Well, for the record…” Jake points his beer in the waitress’s direction. “She was flirting.”

“Maybe you’re imagining things too.” I pop a shrimp into my mouth.

“Finn,” he says with exaggerated patience. “You’re a starting pro quarterback in a town that loves its team. You can safely assume that even the dogs on the street are flirting with you.”

“The landscape of your mind is a scary place, Ryder.”

He grins, his mouth full of shrimp. “But a lot of fucking fun.”

I’m laughing in agreement when it hits me; Chess didn’t flirt. Not in the usual, please do me and then sign my chest kind of way I’m used to. She didn’t try to get anything from me other than a good picture, which is her job. She’d been utterly herself. And, for a few brief moments, so had I.

“What’s that sour face all about?” Jake asks, cutting into my thoughts. “Got a bad oyster?”

I slouch back in my seat and toy with the soggy label on my beer bottle. Jake and I were drafted in the same year to the same team. We suffered through having to do stupid singing skits during training camp, rookie hazing, fucked up buzz cuts with bullseyes on our heads, and the mental mind-fuck of transitioning from being top dogs in college to holding on by our fingertips as we made our way in the NFL.

He is my closest friend. And if either one of us gets transferred, I might actually break down and cry manly tears of sorrow. He’s also my sounding board, as weird as his advice usually is.

“I was thinking about the photographer.”

“Chester Copperpot?” He chuckles. “I don’t think she liked you.”

“She liked me fine.” While she hadn’t batted her eyelashes at me, there had definitely been moments of…something. I’ve never had something occur with a woman before, so I’m not sure what the hell it is or what it means.

Jake lifts up a hand. “Okay, I need to amend my earlier statement. You can rest assured that everyone in New Orleans, including the dogs, is flirting with you. Except for Chess Copper.”

I resist the urge to chuck a hushpuppy at his head. “That’s the thing; I know she didn’t flirt. I kind of liked that.”

He rests his forearms on the table. “Dude, be reasonable. The One-Eyed Willie comment killed it for you. Move on and knock on more welcoming doors.”

“Hell, I’m not trying to get into her pants—”

“Bullshit,” Jake coughs loudly.

“I just want to…” I trail off, not really knowing what the fuck I want. Being with Chess was one of the most real moments of my life, and yet it also feels like a strange dream.

“Have a meaningful and deep conversation with the woman who took pictures of your junk all day?” he supplies. Not at all helpfully.

A hushpuppy pings his forehead dead center. My aim is a thing of beauty, I will say that. Laughing, he flips me off and wipes the grease spot from his head. In turn, I give him a salute with my beer bottle. “Look at it this way,” I say. “At least she won’t be trying to picture me naked.”

“Worse, she’s already seen you naked. So if she’s not trying to get you there again, you know she found you lacking.”

“Why do I tell you anything?”

“I don’t know. I’m just going to sell it to the tabloids later.”

It might be wrapped up in a joke, but he’s giving me a good reminder; our lives aren’t like normal people’s. Finding someone to hook up with is easy. Having an actual relationship is a minefield. You never know whether the person likes you or your fame. And there’s the hassle of easing someone into a life where they’re under a public microscope, and you’re either on the road for most of the season, or training, making appearances, and basically having no personal time. That’s why most smart guys either marry their college sweethearts or connect with someone famous who knows what to expect. And that’s why I’ve never had a relationship, but rely on hookups for my sexual release. One and done is as easy as it can get in our world. Usually.