"Having your jersey is a crime now?" you ask defensively.

You’re honestly a little shocked. You thought this would have bolstered his ego, not made him grumpy as fuck.

"It's signed. I signed it. When the fuck did that happen?"

"Shortly after I bought it-years ago. When I went to an open training camp day."

"I don't remember it."

You laugh at the idea that he would, and he frowns.

"Why would you? You've probably signed thousands of them over the years."

"I feel like I'd remember you." There's a defensive edge to his voice.

"You barely even looked at me. You were too busy flirting with my friend and asking for her number so she could meet you at a club that night."

A panicked look flashes across his face. "I didn't -" He stops as abruptly as he started.

"Fuck her? No. She had a boyfriend and wasn't interested. She told you that before trying to get me to give you my number. Which you responded to with... 'Nah. I'm good, sweetheart' before you waved us off."

His eyes soften, and his jaw flexes.