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Caroline rolls her eyes. “You guys aren’t doing a thing, but you’re mad that she didn’t mention her ex was hitting on her?”
I clench my jaw. “I just would’ve expected her to mention it.”
“There was nothing to mention,” Caroline says. “He kept showing up at Taste and trying to make gestures to impress her. She kept ignoring him. He eventually got the message. End of story.”
I clear my throat, nodding. “Well, if she’s not dating, it’s because she takes her job seriously. It doesn’t have to imply anything about the two of us.”
“What about you?” Caroline asks. “I guess you’re not taking your job seriously, because I’ve still seen pictures of you leaving the arena with other women.”
I shift the bag on my shoulder, forcing a shrug. “And?”
She shakes her head in disappointment. “You two could be so good together. It’s like you’re trying to sabotage things.”
I give another shrug, because that’s probably more accurate than she realizes. The real truth is I haven’t so much as kissed another woman since Mia’s Grams double-booked us almost a year ago. I’ve still been just letting it look like I’m taking a woman home every few weeks to keep up appearances. Liam caught on to what I was doing and called it the lamest, weirdest form of prostitution he’s ever heard of. I tried to tell him paying women to walk from the arena to a car with me is hardly prostitution, but he wasn’t hearing it.
I don’t want Mia thinking I’m cock blocking myself for her benefit. I don’t want that pressure on her, or that expectation. Honestly, part of me just doesn’t want her to know how pathetic my life has been since we crossed paths again.
Now I eat, breathe, and sleep hockey. I go out with the guys when it’s convenient, but there’s not much more to my life than that. The highlight moments are when I’m on the ice, or when I’m back in Frosty Harbor at Taste and when I’m alone with Mia.
“Look how uncomfortable you’re making him,” Andi says. “I think Nolan might be blushing.”
“I’m not. But I’ll go to the damn bar,” I say. “I’ve got nothing else to do, anyway.”
Caroline grins. “He just advanced to the conference finals half an hour ago, but he has nothing better to do.”
I point a warning finger at her. “I’m not about to tell a woman to shut up in front of a baby. But I might be thinking it.”
She smirks. “Go be with your woman, Nolan. Be with her.”
“Careful,” I warn. “Keep teasing, and I’ll start grilling you about all the times I’ve seen you and Jake making googly eyes at each other.”
Caroline stiffens.
I chuckle as I walk off, crossing the busy street when I get a chance. I pull up the name of the bar on my phone and tap for directions.
And then I travel in silence, trying not to think about whether Mia is going to be pissed or excited to see me show up unannounced.
32
MIA
The bar’s food is unfortunately overrated. I’ve enjoyed the outing, though, because Paisley and I are having fun trying to diagnose what they did wrong with the cheese sauce for the pretzels and how we would improve it.
I also still feel an odd sense of pride and excitement for the Vandals and the win they just secured. I was trying not to come to any of the games because I didn’t want to make Nolan uncomfortable, but everyone convinced me I had to come for this one. It was the final game in the series, win or go home, they said. And I’m glad I came. Getting a few days off from the restaurant has been good for me, too. I love my work, but it’s hard not to let it completely consume me when I’m back home. With Paisley and me both gone, we just moved around the normal days Taste closes for the week and shuffled some reservations.
Even if the food here is over-hyped, Paisley and I are laughing as we get more and more ridiculous, trying to impersonate snobby foot critics with our diagnosis of the bar food.
A pair of guys wearing jerseys from the opposing team are sitting beside us. From the pace they’re downing drinks, it seems like they didn’t take their team’s exit from the playoffs happily.
The guy closest to me is maybe in his forties with a thick beard and shaved head. His friend is around the same age, but thinner and attractive, even if there’s a mean cast to his eyes.
Paisley takes another taste of the cheese sauce with her fingers. “Maybe we just got a bad batch? The reviews were all so good.”
I shrug. “Maybe we’re just snobs, now.”
We both grin at that. Working in fine dining probably has a tendency to turn anyone into a food snob. It’s not that we can’t enjoy a greasy burger or pizza with the rest of the world, but it’s also hard to turn off the critical side of our brains. Every time I taste food, now, I’m analyzing it. I’m trying to pick apart the flavors and assess whether the chef made a mistake or what they could do to improve. It’s fun, but admittedly feels like a bit of a curse, at times.
“Not a fan of the food?” the bearded guy asks from beside me. He’s sitting to my right, and he turns in his barstool to face us, nearly empty beer in his big hand. “Y’all come from out of town and want to shit on our food, huh? That’s big of you.”
