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A low, warm chuckle floats into my ear, and I can picture him shaking his head the way he does at me sometimes. “Sounds like you could use a drink?”
I groan, but I can’t keep the grin off my face. “Throw in some queso fundido?”
“Marry me.”
“What?”
He chuckles and clears his throat. “Meet me in fifteen?”
* * *
“I can’t believe we’re at a hockey party on a school night!” Aly says as we walk into the Matador. It took us longer than fifteen minutes to get dressed and catch a Lyft across the river. The crowd is tightly packed three deep around the charred-wood bar. The entire space is cast in the warmth of dim, sensual lighting from the overhead Edison bulb fixtures. It smells like cumin and lime juice and anticipation.
“Oh, honey,” Caro says, wrapping an arm around Aly. “This is a restaurant.”
“Play nice, you two,” I say, scanning the bustling Thursday night crowd for a sign of my six-foot-two best friend as we settle into a table. It’s usually not too hard to find him, especially if he’s with any of his teammates.
Caro pulls up, freezes, and raises a finger as if measuring the wind. “I think I smell Drakkar Noir and…” She squints and tilts her head. “A faint hint of international fangirl.”
“Ooh! Pick me! Pick me!” Aly says, waving her hand. “Is it a bulging Russian man with a deep love for all thingsTop Gun?”
“‘You can’t handle the truth.’” Pasha’s clipped accent comes from behind me and Aly giggles. He gives me a little squeeze.
“I think you’re mixing up your Tom Cruise movies,” I say, leaning into his greeting.
“Or am I making them better?” Pasha flashes a toothy grin.
I snort and look behind him to where two girls hover, one blond, one brunette, both unequivocally gorgeous. They’re both wearing bold lipstick and unamused expressions. But I don’t see Zeke.
“Your man is at the bar.”
“He’s not my man,” I say, trying not to sound like I’m a middle schooler denying a crush. The way his brown eyes light up, I can tell he hears it just the same.
“He might need a rescue, and Lord knows you’re his favorite Goose.” I’m about to argue that if anyone is Goose in thisTop Gunreference, it’s him—I’m clearly the Maverick between the two of us. But he nods toward the far end of the bar where Zeke is sitting on a stool as a pretty redhead squeezes his bicep. He doesn’t look unhappy, and my stomach squeezes for a moment. But then the girl tosses her head back and laughs. No, not laughs—cackles. His shoulders tense and I bite back a victory grin.
“Go get him, tiger!” Caro says, slapping my butt.
I thread through the crowd, making my way along the bar. As I get closer, my stomach flutters. It’s so ridiculous. We’ve been friends for over a year now, ever since he saved me and my usually trusty Land Cruiser from the parking lot—ever since I heard him tell his brother,“Look at her, man. Come on, she’s never going to be more than a friend.”
It stung. It still hurts to recall it, but right now as I approach him looking really damn good in his fitted Henley shirt and beanie, the golden hair beneath curling against the back of his neck, I need to remind myself that it’s never going to happen. He’ll never be able to look past my thick thighs or my size 14 waistline. We’ll only ever just be friends.
And so, with this memory fresh in my head like a mantra, I approach him. As his friend, I can see the way his posture tenses as the leggy redhead drags her bubblegum pink fingernails down his forearm. She not-so-subtly swirls the ice of her vodka tonic as she blinks up at him. They would look good together. I let myself go to that dark place and imagine them together: him wrapping his strong arm around her tiny waist, tucking the pretty girl into his side where she’d fit perfectly, looking exactly the part of the hockey girlfriend.
He clears his throat twice as he scrubs a hand down his face. He’s annoyed. That’s my cue. As hisfriend.
9
zeke
“You really needto try the Orange Theory in Slabtown,” the redhead purrs, running her weirdly pointy nails along my forearm. “I bet you’d love the cross-training. I could show you the ropes before class.”
If I was a lesser man, I would tell her that professional hockey players don’t need cross-training during the regular season. I would also tell her that her nails feel like bugs crawling down my arm. And that she has spinach in her teeth.
She doesn’t, but if I was a lesser man, I would say that. Just to get her and her perfume away from me.
A warm hand presses against the center of my back, grounding me. I take a deep breath and feel my muscles relax.
“Hey, baby,” Faye says, leaning in.
