No one answered him.
Briggs didn’t look like a football player, one tackle and you would be gone.
The photographer called for another shot, this time with Briggs. I held the pose, jaw tight, while Briggs stood beside me.
When the photographer finally said break, I stepped off the set and grabbed another water. Briggs followed.
He leaned against a wall, arms crossed. “What’s got you edgy.”
I took a sip. “It’s not your business.”
“It is if you start playing like garbage,” he replied.
“What,” he pressed. “You look like you haven’t slept in a week.”
I hesitated.
Briggs watched me with that blunt patience he used in the net. Like he would wait all night if he had to. “Ah,” he said, like it clicked. “The girl.”
I stared at him. “Don’t start.”
Briggs tilted his head. “What’s her name.”
