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The hallway still smells like ice. People pour out in groups, loud, happy, bumping, and way too close together. I keep my back to the wall and my hands in my pockets. I’m not sure what is appropriate to say to him when he comes out.

Congratulations.

You played well. As if I even know what that looks like.

Batman lives.

None of that covers the fact that I watched him for two hours and felt every goal in my body.

The locker room door keeps opening. Not him. Not him. Not him. Then him. His hair damp, duffel bag slung over his shoulder, and his whole face lights up when he spots me against the wall.

“You stayed,” he says.

“I said I would.”

“Yeah, but you hate crowds.” He stops in front of me, close enough that I can smell his body wash instead of the rink. “We won.”

“Three to two. I saw.”

He laughs, bright and happy. “That’s the important part, brain. You hungry? I’m starving.”

The tightness from the crowd starts to ease at his nickname for me, and I smile.

“Tacos,” I say, because I’m a creature of habit and that’s what we had the last two times we ate lunch together.

“Tacos.” He tips his head toward the doors. “We just need to stop by the room and drop my bag off.”

I nod, and he leads the way.

TWENTY-SEVEN

DANIEL

Los Amigos is louder than last time, which I should have seen coming. It’s a Saturday night. First game of the season. We won. And people want to get food in them before they go out to party. I manage to get us the table near the back wall anyway, because Quinn’s shoulders are already doing that small tight thing he does when he starts to get anxious.

He sits with his back against the wall and looks at the menu as if it might have changed since the last time we came here. I watch him do it and feel the post-win buzz settle into something warmer. He really came tonight. Even though I know it’s not his scene.

“You’re staring,” he says, without looking up.

“I’m zoning. I’m hungry.”

“No, you are definitely staring.”

“Don’t start, brain. I just burned like five thousand calories, and I need cheese.”

The waiter appears before he can reply. I order the torta because it’s my favorite and a margarita without thinking, then glance at Quinn. He’s got a little line between his eyebrows. My Quinn is a creature of habit. Whoa, My Quinn⁠—

“You want one?” I tip my head at the drink on the menu instead of examining my errant thought. “Margarita. Lime. Salt. Celebratory drink.”

“Alcohol is a depressant.”

“It’s also tequila and sugar and fun to let loose a little every once in a while.” I lean in so I don’t have to shout as I try to convince him. “One. You don’t have to finish it. If you hate it, I’ll drink the rest. And best of all, you can take notes on the experience, like a mini science experiment.”

That gets him. I can see it in the way his eyes brighten. I almost snort. He is all about collecting data. It’s adorable.

He studies the description and chews on his lip. “I’ve had wine at my parents’ house. Once. It was terrible and dried out my mouth, which⁠—”

“This is nothing like wine. This is a lime slushy with a criminal record. Trust me. Nothing dry about it.”