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She waves at me over her shoulder. “That’s okay.”
“Seriously. You like hockey?”
“Nope!”
She and the kid get in the van and merge into traffic, not even glancing at me as they depart in their minivan with faux wood panels running around its center. That shit is old.
Is that her kid? How does she know so much about cars? Did she reject me because I smell like puke? I’m staring after her when a text comes to my phone.
Coach Maddox: You better be dead. I can’t think of any other legitimate reason for you to not be here at almost nine a.m. on a game day.
Chapter Two
Tess
* * *
“Thanks, sweet cheeks.” The diner customer winks at me as I clear away his dirty dishes, bacon grease and crumbs visible in his gray beard. When I glare at him, he huffs. “What? Is that offensive now, too?”
Like “sweet cheeks” was ever not offensive. Entitled customers are the worst part of this job, but I need to keep it, so I press my lips together instead of responding to him.
“I just might forget to tip you next time,” he mutters.
I’m not strong enough to ignore that comment. This guy orders the senior citizen coffee, bacon, egg and toast special every time he comes in. His total bill is always nine dollars and eighty-nine cents and he tips me fifteen percent, which is one dollar and forty-eight cents.
“That’ll hit my budget hard,” I say flatly. “Is there anything else I can get you?”
He sniffs. “You can top off my coffee one more time.”
Oh, can I? Really? I hold my tongue, but I’m inwardly flipping him off as I walk over to the coffee station and grab the oldest pot from a burner. I like most of the customers here, but there are a few I wouldn’t miss if they never came back.
“Tess, can you cover the bar for me?” The owner of the diner, Deb, gives me an imploring look.
I can tell what time of day it is by how Deb looks. A few frizzy silver curls have escaped her ponytail and her eyeliner is smudged—it’s her post-lunch rush vibe.
“Did Tony leave early again?” I ask her.
Her shoulders drop in an unspoken confirmation. Our new cook has been cutting out early every day, leaving us short-staffed in the kitchen during our busiest time. It’s almost one thirty, so at least the worst of the rush is over.
“Yep, I’ve got the bar,” I say.
She passes me her order pad. “Thanks.”
Her brow already sweaty, Deb goes through the double doors to the kitchen, where she’ll end up even hotter. I’ve only had to help out in there a couple of times in the two years I’ve worked here, making pancakes both times, and it was hotter than my attic bedroom in the un-air-conditioned home on the south side of Chicago I grew up in.
Milder summers are an upside to living in Denver. Winters, though? They can get ridiculous. I’ve lived here for eight years and even though I’m beyond broke, I learned in the first year that good snow boots are nonnegotiable.
By the time I catch up on Deb’s orders while keeping up with my own, nearly an hour has passed, but it only felt like a few minutes to me. Deb makes me a bacon and grilled cheese sandwich and I’m in the kitchen scarfing it when she comes back to tell me someone’s asking for me.
“Did they say why?” I ask her.
She shrugs. “I assume it’s a customer who wants to ask you out. He looks about your age.”
I groan because I don’t date, and one of two things happens every time a man asks me out. Either he’s nice and accepts no quickly and walks away looking dejected, making me feel bad. Or he’s an asshole who won’t take no for an answer, making me feel like kicking him in the crotch.
After a quick check in the reflection of the stainless paper towel dispenser to make sure I don’t have food on my face or in my teeth, I walk through the double doors, doing a double take when I see the driver I stopped to help this morning.
“Hey,” I say, my suspicion evident in my tone.
