Preston turned away rapidly, his heart thudding too hard in his chest. There was no way he could watch another man kiss her.
Departing quickly—lest he lose his mind, cross the street, and punch the fucker out—he maintained a steady, relentless pace, refusing to look back.
When he arrived at the restaurant, he was out of breath and torn between pure rage and utter despair. Victor was already waiting for him in a booth, and the astute bastard read both expressions before Preston could even attempt to school his features. Not that he was trying too hard.
“That’s a fucking brutal look,” Victor grumbled as Preston joined him. “What the fuck happened? Did someone piss in your aquarium?”
Preston didn’t—couldn’t—fix his face, so the scowl remained. “I’m fine,” he replied, too shortly to sell the words.
Victor snorted in disbelief. “Yeah, right.”
Before his friend could continue to question him, the waitress, Yvonne, approached them. “Hey, Preston, Victor. You guys want to start with something to drink while you look at the menu?”
The fact Yvonne knew their names, and they knew hers, was a testament to just how much Preston and his Stingrays teammates hung out here.
Sunday’s Side was the restaurant attached to their preferred watering hole, Pat’s Pub, and it was Preston’s favorite place for breakfast. He didn’t have a clue what the cook, Riley, put in her blueberry pancakes to make them so light and delicious, but he would walk a hundred miles across the desert on his knees for an order.
“I’ll have a coffee,” Victor said. “Black.”
Preston didn’t usually drink coffee, but he was having a hard time giving a shit what he drank or ate at the moment. “Same.”
Yvonne smiled as she flipped the cups already on their table, filling them with the pot she’d carried over with her. “Okay. Do you need a few minutes, or are you going with the usual?”
Yep. They were here a lot.
Victor, also a huge fan of the pancakes, spoke for both of them. “The usual. Tall stacks with the side of bacon.”
Yvonne chuckled. “Y’all really should consider trying something else. I promise it’s all good.”
Ordinarily, Preston was the one carrying on the polite conversation with Yvonne, as Victor was a grumpy bastard on a good day. Preston must’ve look more pissed off than he realized, considering Victor was taking one for the team and handling all the chitchat, he and Yvonne sharing some pleasantries and talking about the season. Yvonne was part of the Collins clan who ran the restaurant and pub, and if there were bigger Stingrays fans in the city, Preston hadn’t met them yet.
Once Yvonne left to put in their order, Victor leaned back, his arms resting on the top of the booth. “Alright. Spill.”
“Nothing to spill,” Preston lied.
Victor studied his face hard, then growled. “Sure, there isn’t. Listen, when the guys heard we were going to breakfast this morning, they appointed me their fucking spokesperson, even though I said fuck no.”
“Spokesperson?”
“The guys want to know what the hell is going on with you, man.”
Preston didn’t want to talk about any of this. Not his depression. Not Chelsea. Not that fucking asshole who was kissing her.
He thought he’d been pretty good at shielding his blues, but if his teammates had noticed…
Time to deflect.
“What do you mean?”
Victor frowned, annoyed at the way he was playing dumb. “You’ve been a fucking sad sack since Thanksgiving. Usually, you’re more annoying than that Will Farrell Elf character at the holidays, and today you walked in here looking like somebody just fucking punched your mother. So what gives?”
“I’m just not feeling it this year. Not feeling a lot of things lately,” Preston confessed. Especially not today. Not now that he’d seen Chelsea with that man.
Victor studied his face closely. “You think it’s some sort of midlife crisis thing?”
Preston had considered that when he realized his struggles were mental, not physical. But he’d dismissed the idea fairly quickly. Because even if that was the case, the usual cures wouldn’t help because he already owned a shit-hot car, and he loved his condo overlooking the Inner Harbor. So, it wasn’t like he could buy himself happiness or move.
On top of that, he had a decent social life with plenty of good friends—both his teammates and his neighbors—so he wasn’t hurting for company when he wanted it.
