“He’s enthusiastic.”
“He’s insane.”
“He’s your teammate, and he volunteered. Winnie was busy, Tori had plans, and your other option was asking Bree, which—”
“Was not happening.”
Not for our first date. Holy awkward situation, Batman.
“Right. So Logan it is.” I pull down the visor mirror and check my lipstick, which I’ve applied three times and wiped off twice because I couldn’t decide how much was too much for dinner with a man who has already seen me in sleep shorts with no bra. “Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.”
“I hate surprises.”
He glances at me, his eyes moving over my face, my hair, and the top I’m wearing—silky and a little low-cut, enough that he’s bound to glance at my collarbone at some point tonight and lose his train of thought.
“You look really good,” he says.
“Thanks.”
“I mean it. You look—” He turns back to the road. “Yeah. You look great.”
“Eloquent.”
“I’m a hockey player, Syd. You’ll have to lower the bar if you expect eloquence.”
I laugh, and something loosens in my chest, because this is us. We’ve had a thousand dinners, a thousand car rides, and a thousand conversations. The only thing different tonight is that he made a reservation and I’m wearing lipstick and uncomfortable underwear.
The restaurant is a small Italian place on a side street I’ve never been to. It’s not fancy—dim lighting, candles on the tables, a bar along one wall. The host knows Archer by name, which tells me he’s been here before, and she leads us to a corner booth in the back where nobody will bother us.
We sit down, and a waiter brings menus. The host knew his name at the door, and he orders a bottle of red without looking at the list.
“You’ve been here before,” I say.
“A few times.”
“With who?”
“Nobody. Just me.” He opens his menu casually, as if that’s not a loaded answer. “I come here after bad games sometimes. It’s quiet, and the food is great. You’ll like it.”
I do love Italian food; it’s one of my favorites, and of course Archer knows this. “I’ve never been on a date with you,” I say, because the silence is starting to feel heavy, and someone has to name the absurdity of this situation.
“We’ve had dinner together hundreds of times.”
“Those weren’t dates. Those were two friends eating food. This is different.”
“How is it different?”
“You’re wearing a button-down.”
He looks down at his shirt as if he forgot what he was wearing. “Ollie told me to wear it.”
“You asked Ollie for fashion advice?”
“I asked Ollie if I should wear a suit, and he said, ‘It’s not prom, Arch,’ and told me to wear this.” He tugs the collar. “I feel like a real estate agent.”
“You look good.”
