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“Jesus Christ.” Matty Coates rolled his eyes. “Give it up already.”

“What do you guys want to eat?”

They all looked up at Zanetti, hovering behind Matty Coates’ chair, waiting expectantly with his phone in hand.

“Huh?” Eli said smartly.

“What do you guys want to eat?” Zanetti repeated. “I’ll go order for us all.”

“Oh, thanks.” Eli shimmied his wallet out of his back pocket, removed his credit card, and held it out to him, trying not to cringe at what feeding a dozen of his teammates would cost.

But Zanetti just stared at it, a crinkle between his brows.

Deeley nipped it out of Eli’s hands. “What are you doing? He’s been playing professional hockey for almost two decades and he makes way more than you. Put this away.” He shoved the credit card into Eli’s front pocket.

“Also, it’s your birthday,” Matty Coates said. “You don’t pay for your own birthday breakfast or anyone else’s.”

Zanetti nodded. “What they said. So? What do you guys want?”

“French toast,” Sandbaker said.

“’Kay.” Zanetti nodded and typed on his phone. “What else?”

“Uh . . . a coffee refill would be great. Actually, make that two orders of French toast.”

“You can have one order of French toast with a side of eggs and turkey bacon.” Zanetti narrowed his gaze on Sandbaker. “You need protein.”

Sandbaker sighed miserably. “Yes, Dad.”

Zanetti didn’t react. “What about the rest of you?”

He moved on down the table once they’d given him their orders, and Eli stood.

“Where are you off to?” Matty Coates asked.

“Washroom.”

“Washroom.” Deeley snickered. “You’re so Canadian.”

“And proud of it.”

Outside of the function room, the café was as packed as it had been earlier, though the line of customers waiting for a table had dwindled. Music played through the sound system, but Eli couldn’t identify what it was over the drone of conversations and cutlery clinking on plates. A kid spilled his juice as Eli walked by, and the ensuing wail nearly pierced his eardrums.

He used the facilities quickly, and as he exited, he spotted a sign hanging between two windows that made him snicker. Serving freshly booed coffee.

But the man sitting at a table for two underneath the sign had his snicker turning into a squeak he didn’t care enough to be embarrassed about.

Nolan Madolora, all six feet two inches of him, sat with his head bent over a laptop, a stack of folded sheets of paper at one elbow and a mug of what appeared to be a latte at the other. On the other side of the table was an empty plate with a slice of tomato left behind.

Eli bit his lip, debating whether he should approach.

Fuck, Nolan was hot. Leanly muscled and long-limbed, he had the kind of face that said should be the love interest on a Crave drama rather than just a bro working a corporate job: deep-set eyes, a prominent nose, and an angular and stubbled jawline. His wavy chestnut hair was cut in a trendy shag cut, although it was currently covered by a Toronto Blue Jays baseball hat. The sleeves of his long-sleeved T-shirt were pushed up to his elbows, showing off several tattoos on both arms.

Nolan sipped from his mug, and it left a pinprick of foam on his upper lip.

It would be crass of Eli to swoop in and lick it off, right?

Right.