Page 165 of How to Lose at Love

“I never wantto fold another napkin again, as long as I live.” Winnie stacks a rolled set of utensils on a pile, forever complaining.

I still have tables and my own work to do, so I haven’t plopped down to join her yet, but I am thoroughly enjoying her bitching and moaning every time I walk past her in the booth.

“You could be filling ketchup bottles. Or the salt,” I remind her with a smirk, a task that’s even worse than the silverware.

“I think I’ll stick with this, thank you very much.”

The football game is on. I’ve been trying to ignore it, but Kyle throws a massive fit if we want to have another program playing, his school spirit strong.

He’s leaning against the griddle, eyes glued to the TV mounted in the dining room, squinting as if that’s going to help him see the monitor better.

“Oh, damn!” he shouts, covering his mouth with a fist. “Oh, shit.”

I refuse to glance up.

The occasional mention of Dallas Colter’s name is plenty for me to bear—I don’t want to be a selfish brat and insist that Kyle turn the game off because I can’t stand looking at Dallas’s lying face.

“He never gets sacked. This is unbelievable,” Kyle mutters, not having any food to prepare because all the orders are up.

The diner is typically pretty dead on the days there are games, but it’ll get horribly busy once the game is over—which is why Winnie is rolling napkins and three more servers are on their way in.

“Who never gets sacked?” Winnie asks.

“Colter.” Pause. “Did you see that? Ripley took him out. Dude never had a chance to release the ball.”

“Huh, weird. He must have a lot on his mind.”

I narrow my eyes in her direction.

Winnie is as subtle as a hippo stomping through the forest, but she means well.

“He’s lucky he’s standing. That hit was insane.”

“Are they supposed to hit a quarterback that hard?” Winnie asks the question I’m only thinking because I don’t want either of them to know I care whether Dallas gets hurt or not.

Boyfriend or not, I wouldn’t want anyone to get hurt.

“I mean, they’re not trying to take him out, but some of these dudes are nothing but solid muscle.”

Winnie nods, shooting me a sly look as she watches me watching the screen, my hand and dishrag pausing over the table I was wiping down.

Stop watching, Ryann.

YOU DO NOT LIKE THIS GUY ANYMORE.

“Halftime!” Kyle shouts, disappearing from the service window, getting back to the task of prepping the kitchen like he should have been doing instead of standing around watching football.

I resume wiping down tables.

Straighten menus, adjust the condiments in their metal racks.

“Holy shit,” Winnie whispers loud enough for me to hear it, and I turn to find her slowly rising from the booth. “Kyle, turn up the volume.”

I shake my head. “Winnie, we have customers.”

She shushes me, waving a hand to get me to shut up, all eyes on the television, Kyle pointing the remote toward the screen.

“…he was seen on the porch with someone who was notably not his girlfriend Ryann Winters, a junior classmate at Wisconsin. We didn’t have all the details of the story at the time, and we’re here with a retraction…”

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