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“Don’t get in shit on our account,” Flip says.
She waves a dismissive hand. “I’ll tell him we’ve got a pro hockey player in the restaurant, and he’ll probably have a mini coronary. It’ll be fine.”
She takes our drink orders and leaves us to look at the menu. I don’t need it. I get the same thing every time.
“Have you slept with that girl or something?” Tristan asks Flip once she’s gone.
“Nah, man. Rix and I come here once a month. She’s usually our server.” Flip looks through the menu. He typically orders one of three things.
“You could go somewhere nicer. With fewer screaming children.” Tristan glances to our right, where a family with three kids, all under six, fight over crayons. The toddler is smashing goldfish crackers into dust and screaming his head off. Who is he to look down on those who appreciate unlimited salad and garlic bread?
Flip shrugs. “It’s where we go.”
“You’re more than welcome to leave if the noise bothers you,” I say with a smile.
Our server returns with drinks. Flip and I have Coke, and Tristan has a draft beer. We order our mains, and a minute later, the salad and garlic bread arrive. Addy waits while we empty the bowl onto our three side plates and tells us she’ll be right back with salad round two. I spread my napkin on my lap and cross my legs. My foot connects with a shin because Tristan is manspreading.
“Sorry,” I mumble around a mouthful of delicious salad.
He grunts but doesn’t move his leg or comment otherwise.
Every few minutes, Addy passes by with another bowl of salad and more garlic bread.
Flip eats like someone is going to steal his food, while Tristan is methodical and mannerly. He grew up in an upper-middle-class family, so having manners and not eating like every meal might be the last one he’ll get makes sense.
I’m already stuffed to bursting by the time our main courses arrive. Tristan has manspread so much that his foot keeps hitting mine. Even without trying, he manages to take up all the space—and not just on his side of the booth, but in the room. Everyone who passes the table gives him a second glance.
I kick him not-so-gently. “Can you stop?”
He arches a brow while he twirls noodles on his fork with the help of a spoon. “You’re the one kicking me.”
“Because you’re manspreading into my space.”
“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m six-five, and these booths aren’t designed to hold someone my size, let alone two people this size.” He motions to Flip.
“You keep stepping on my foot!”
“And you keep kicking me in the shin. Seems like maybe we’re even.”
“Can you cut the bickering for two minutes? You’re worse than that table over there.” Flip nods toward a table of tween-girl soccer players who are shrieking and taking endless selfies.
I cross my legs and angle my body toward the edge of the booth. My heel rests against Tristan’s calf. I peek under the table. He and my brother are strategically positioned so their legs don’t hit each other. I stop bitching and pop a slice of spicy sausage into my mouth, even though I’m already full.
The whole point of eating at East Side’s is to fill up on salad and bread and take my pasta home. I can usually make it last for an additional lunch and dinner the next day.
A minute later, a pair of twelve-year-old boys walk by and do a double take. They’re wearing Terror ball caps with the raging goose mascot emblem. One elbows the other. “Holy crap. Flip Madden and Tristan Stiles?”
Flip’s grin is instantaneous—he loves the fame. Tristan takes a moment to catch up, but he, too, smiles. The shift is disarming, in part because all it does is make him hotter. He and Flip entertain the boys for a minute, scooting out of their seats to take a few photos and sign the boys’ hats before their parents usher them back to their table.
“You just made their day.” I don’t want to find how kind Tristan was to those boys attractive.
“Part of the job.” Tristan’s phone lights up, and he frowns as he taps on the screen. “Well, shit.”
“Shit what?” Flip asks through a mouthful of noodles.
“Hendrix is coming back. I thought he was still recovering from knee surgery.”
“Guess he healed up better than they expected,” Flip says.
“Yeah, I guess.” Tristan pokes at his noodles but doesn’t spin any onto his fork.
“It’ll be good to have him back on the ice,” Flip offers.
“Yeah.” Tristan rubs his bottom lip. He doesn’t look like he feels the same way. “I wonder what line they’ll start him on?”
“You’re talking about Hollis Hendrix, right?” I ask.
“Yeah. He’s been out since the middle of last season,” Flip says.
“I thought he might retire. Isn’t he in his mid-thirties?” I spear a mushroom.
