Page 16 of King of the Crease

“Just going to get a bite to eat.”

“By yourself?” Hank wonders, a bit sad. Little does he know what a privilege it is for me to go off and grab lunch on my own.

“Yep. I was going to find something. Any suggestions?”

“Here we go…” Griffin groans.

Hank’s eyes light up, as if he were preparing for this moment his whole life. He nods behind us. “That’s Caroline’s. Fantastic greasy spoon diner. Great soup. Their sandwiches are good; Chicken salad is better than the tuna salad, though some people disagree.” He points across the street. “That’s Sandwiches on Main. If you want a hoagie or a big sub.”

“Hoagie,” I repeat, the word swirling around my mouth. “Remind me what that is?”

“A long sandwich,” he explains, his face practically glowing. “You pick your toppings. Their tuna salad is better than their chicken salad, and their tomatoes are juicier. Sweeter. I don’t know why. Probably the same supplier as Caroline’s, but⁠—”

“Hank,” Griffin cuts in. “I don’t think the man needs a dissertation on sandwiches.”

“I wouldn’t want to eat at the wrong place. It could ruin my whole day.”

“That’s how I feel about lunch, too!” Hank exclaims.

I grin at him. I realize I’ve been smiling a lot. He’s smiling back just as warmly, and that sends a pleasant little flutter through my chest.

“Maybe you want a burger,” Hank continues. “Hamburger Haven two blocks down. Great burgers. Their fries are unbelievable. The waffle fries practically melt in your mouth. And there’s Stone’s Throw Tavern—it’s a bar, but the food is excellent. The owner is a pal of ours. Great guy.”

“And their tomatoes?” I ask.

Hank pauses mid-thought. Looks like I stumped him. A hint of amusement flickers across his face. “That’s…a good question. I don’t think I’ve ever ordered anything with tomatoes there.”

“How can I go there if I don’t know about the tomatoes?”

“Life is all about taking chances,” he zips back. “Maybe you’re a tuna salad guy, and today you go for the chicken salad.”

“Is now a bad time to tell you I’m a vegetarian?”

Hank’s eyes bulge out of his head. He’s both mystified and horrified.

“I’m messing with you.” I’ve always wanted to say that to someone!

I’m having too much fun chatting with Hank. All of my daily conversations are so serious and important. A sense of humor doesn’t fit into Agnes’s schedule. When I see other European royals, their jokes are acid-tongued and flat-out mean. They believe you can be as cruel as you want so long as there’s a punchline.

But as Nick, I can be silly, too. It seems impossible to be anything but happy around Hank.

“How’s your head feeling?” Griffin asks, breaking up whatever is going on between us.

“He doesn’t have a concussion,” Hank tells his friend matter-of-factly. He’s as confident in his knowledge of head trauma as he is in his lunch recommendations.

“What’s your line of work that caused you to get two concussions?” I ask him.

“Well, by day I’m a plumber. But I also play hockey. Mario meets Gretzky.”

I don’t know who either of those people are, but I’m entranced nonetheless. Hank points to his hockey jersey, visible between his open coat, stretching across his large-and-in-charge stomach.

“The Comebacks?” I read off the front.

“Yeah, that’s our team.” He elbows Griffin. “I helped come up with the name.”

“Aren’t teams usually named after animals?”

“Not always. My buddies and I played together in high school. Won a few championships back in the day, not to brag.” He gives an immodest shrug that screams adorable. He puts up a hand which Griffin slaps in high five fashion. “Last year, we decided to get back together on the ice and join a local beer league.”