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His smile widens.
The urge to kiss him is almost unbearable, but we’re in public with people milling all around us.
“What are you doing here?” he asks just as I say, “How was your exam?”
He grins at me.
“Figured we could grab lunch,” I say.
For a change, he doesn’t argue or make excuses. We walk to the cafeteria and grab trays from the stack by one of the counters.
Lake’s already seated at one of the tables by the window by the time I’ve finished loading up with food. He watches silently while I arrange my food the way I like it before he quirks his brow at me.
“Do you think you got it all, or was there still some left for the rest of the population?”
“I’m a growing boy,” I say with an unconcerned shrug.
“I’m just glad I managed to grab my food before you got there and ate… everything.”
I stuff a forkful of rice into my mouth and grin at him.
“You never said how your exam went,” I remind him.
“Reasonably well.” He chews thoughtfully on his pulled pork sandwich. “It was all pretty standard stuff.”
“No curveballs?” I ask.
“I mean, there were trickier questions in the last section, but I think I got them all. We’ll see. How was practice?”
We continue eating, talking about our days and casually discussing what both of us have planned for the rest of the week. The two games I have this weekend are both in Boston this time around, so that’s nice. The less time I have to spend on the road, the better.
“You’re still coming to the game, right?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says and rolls his eyes. “I’m coming to the game.”
“Good. You’ll take my car. And I got you a jersey.”
I raise my brows at him when he just stares at me, the last of his sandwich dangling between his fingers.
“You got me a jersey?” he asks dubiously.
“Yeah. My jersey,” I say.
He’s still staring. I stare back.
He licks his lips, that familiar, apprehensive expression on his face. But then he wipes it off and stuffs the rest of his sandwich in his mouth.
“Okay,” he says. “But it’ll look really weird among all the blue and white of my fellow fans.”
I throw a piece of carrot at his head. “You are not supporting fucking Maine.”
“Aww, baby. You can’t tell me who to root for.”
My eyes snap up. My insides jolt. I don’t think he even noticed or registered what he said, but that “baby” just made my whole fucking day.
“Do you think I’ll get into a brawl if I sit on Maine’s side in my green jersey with your name on it?”
He looks excited about the prospect.
