A slow, guilty smile pulled at Rizzo’s mouth before he blinked at CJ and molded his expression into one that might pass as apologetic for anyone else. “Yeah, that sounds more accurate.”
CJ groaned, and Rizzo brightened, sitting up straight. “So, tacos?”
“No.”
“CJ.”
“No.”
“CJ.”
“Fine,” CJ snapped, snatching his keys from his locker. “But I swear to God, if you bring up?—”
“I won’t,” Rizzo said immediately.
He was absolutely going to. CJ could see the lie clearly in his eyes. Rizzo had already moved past CJ’s denial stage and was well into the part of his strategy where he planned to guide CJ toward what would only end up being an emotional disaster.
“You’re a fucking menace,” CJ muttered.
“And yet you’re still walking next to me,” Rizzo said happily.
CJ regretted everything.
They endedup at a taco joint that Rizzo swore was the best kept secret in Arizona, which was a bold statement to make about a place whose parking lot was nearly empty enough to double as a post-apocalyptic film set. The neon sign buzzed faintly in the warm desert air, flickering betweenTA OSandTAC Slike it couldn’t fully commit. Inside, the sagging red vinyl booths and faded photographs on the walls felt strangely nostalgic, and the space smelled like lime, grilled onions, and heavily spiced meats. For the first time that day, CJ felt his shoulders loosen as they slid into a booth, and he exhaled heavily.
Rizzo charmed their server by asking questions about the food before ordering half the menu while leaning close enough that the server’s cheeks turned a light shade of pink. CJ tuned back into the conversation just as Rizzo settled back against the booth with a grin that made CJ suspicious for reasons he couldn’t articulate. After placing his own order, they dug into a basket of chips and a large bowl of the best salsa CJ had ever tasted.
Rizzo kept the conversation light, and for the first twenty minutes, it was…nice. Nice enough that CJ fully relaxed and began to enjoy himself. Rizzo bounced between stories from his minor league days and chaotic observations about their teammates that were somehow both outrageous and perfectly accurate. CJ found himself laughing—actual laughter and not the hollow, automatic kind he’d been forcing for the last few weeks. It felt foreign, but not bad. CJ started to believe Rizzo really had dragged him out just for company.
He should have known better. He did know better, and he fell for it anyway. Halfway through demolishing his fourth birria taco, Rizzo set down his food and cleared his throat.
“Okay,” he said, wiping his mouth and fingers on a napkin. “Now that you’re buttered up with tacos, I’m gonna say something. And if I’m wrong—which I’m not—you’re allowed to throw the rest of the salsa in my face.”
CJ groaned. “Please don’t.”
“I think there’s more going on between you and Evan than just being reunited college teammates.”
CJ set down his taco carefully because if he didn’t, he was probably going to throw it. “What makes you think something is going on?”
“Bud,” Rizzo said, leaning forward with a sympathetic expression. “You two walk around like magnets flipped to repel each other. You get within five feet of each other? Boom. Repulsion.”
“That is definitely not happening,” CJ scoffed.
“It really is,” Rizzo insisted. “Plus, every time your name comes up, Evan’s jaw twitches. And you. Don’t even get me started. If you get any stiffer around him or when his name comes up, I’ll need to check for a pulse.” Very deliberately, Rizzo dropped his gaze to where CJ was gripping the table, knuckles white.
With effort, CJ unclenched his fingers. “Please just drop this.”
“Okay,” Rizzo said. He put his elbows on the table and leaned forward. “But tell me everything first.”
“No,” CJ said.
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“There is literally nothing to tell.”
