Page 295 of On His Team

He looks down and slips the button off.

“There,” I say, feeling warm. “Good boy.”

The corner of his mouth lifts, and now he’s drinking water.

We order too much food and get to talking about hockey and Hawthorne. I tell him about the operations internship Ives wants me to apply for in May.

“Are you excited for your master’s? What are the classes even like?”

“I don’t know.”

With a mouth full of mashed potatoes, I say, “You don’t know?”

“I know what’s in it,” he says. “I don’t know what it’s like.”

I chuckle sarcastically. “Oh, you’re so particular about the words that I’m using.”

“You asked what it’s like.”

I put my fork down. “Okay, grammar police.”

He laughs. “That’s not grammar.”

I ignore that and keep talking. “Where are you living?”

“Hawthorne.”

I stop chewing. “Wait. You can stay?”

“Yeah. Fuller checked. Since I’m using my fifth year, I can stay with the team.”

I put my fork down. “You’re staying at Hawthorne?”

I say it loudly enough that a woman at the next table looks over. I’m mostly doing it to mess with him, but the more I think about it, the more insane it feels that it’ll be his fifth year in that house.

“It’s just a house, G.”

I deadpan. “Say that again.”

“It’s just a house.”

“Say the words ‘it’s just a house’ to Stanley Ermington and see what happens to your life.”

He laughs.

Afterward, we walk. Not toward anything. No plan. Then we see an ice cream shop and look at each other. We don’t even have to use words; we just walk in and start ordering.

Mine’s mint. His is vanilla.

“You have no personality,” I say, watching him eat it.

“You’re the one dating me.”

I roll my eyes, and he watches me lick my cone.

I lick my lips and say, “Are you remembering our real first date?”

He nods. “Yeah, Hawthorne kitchen.” He smiles. “I think about it all the time.”