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With that decided, my thoughts turn hazy, and I go to bed, exhausted, hugging the still warm jersey like a snuggly.

For the first time in what seems forever, I sleep through the night.

* * *

“What’s this?”Mari squeals when I turn up for my Friday night shift at the bar wearing Kincaid’s shirt. She tugs at the sleeve, raising an eyebrow. “I didn’t take you for a rugby fan, Chess.”

I shrug at her curiosity. “A little, and I thought it might help with the customers, give us some rapport.”

“You’re serving them drinks, girl. That’s all the rapport you need.” She peers closer. “Is that an actual team jersey, not a knock off?”

“Yeah.” I will myself not to blush. “A player gave it to me.”

“And is that double entendre intended?”

I mock slap her, moving away to deliver my current order, then moving back when I’ve taken a mental note of the next.

“You can tell me,” she insists. “I’m the model of discretion.”

“Ha! Lies.”

I adjust the shirt, inexplicably nervous. At home, it made sense to wear it since I’m down a blouse and my t-shirts are so worn they’re practically see-through. Now it’s too late to change my mind, it feels wrong.

But Fridays are our busiest night. A crush of patrons surge towards the counter to place their orders, shoulders jostling against their neighbours. Swept up in serving customers, I barely have time to keep track of the orders, let alone worry about what I’m wearing.

A few hours in, there’s the inevitable broken bottle, and I pull out the heavy-duty vacuum to clear the table and surrounding floor of shattered glass.

The young man responsible—a black-haired lout with ice chips for eyes, far too attractive for his own good—decides to ‘help’ by leaning obnoxiously close, patting my butt. I ‘accidentally’ step on his toes, feigning an apologetic expression before making my escape.

“Pity the vacuum doesn’t have a spray glass mode,” I grumble to Mari, hitching up my jeans to erode the lingering impression of his hand.

Despite the wintry cold outside, in here, it’s warm. The air is fragrant with a mix of body odour and smoke wafting through the doors from the designated area outside. The pungent scent of spilled beer is cut through with a sharp edge of neat spirits.

By the time ten o’clock rolls around, two more servers have joined us, and my feet are aching. I’m overdue my ten-minute break, but every time I glance towards the staff room, there’s another customer.

And another.

I’m pouring a pint when a familiar voice booms, “Hey, Freckles. Can I sign that jersey for you?”

My arm jerks forward at Kincaid’s query, the tap spilling beer all over my hand.

Wiping up the mess distracts me long enough to gather my composure. But when I deliver the order and return to serve him, my skin sizzles with embarrassment. Even his mate Jared is smirking.

I’ve never seen either boy in here before. Nobody from our school comes here, it’s well beneath them.

Regret weighs on me so heavily it hurts to breathe.

He wasneversupposed to know I wore his shirt tonight.

A contented smile softens Kincaid’s face, and he pinches the fabric between his fingers, adjusting the material until his name lies flat.

I back up a step. “What can I get you?”

His eyes dance with unspoken innuendos. But when he props his elbows on the bar, leaning closer, all he says is, “We’re still making up our minds. Want to read off the house specials?”

“Beer,” I retort, turning my back and mouthing, “Kill me now,” to Mari before heading to serve another customer.

She shoots me an amused smile and when I come back to grab a double shot of rum, nods to Jared and Kincaid. “Friends of yours?”