“Of the football team? You’d know that better than I would.” Imightbe trying to press his buttons at this point.
Israel plays defense for our college football team. He’s big, bulky, and grumpy as hell. He got a scholarship to play here, moving allthe way to landlocked Arizona from Hawaii, and I’m pretty sure the longer he stays away from the ocean, the crankier he gets. We’ve been roommates since Freshman year and, now that we’re Seniors, I am determined to take every opportunity I get to stir him up before we graduate and part ways.
I’m going to miss the big lug when that happens.
He growls like the bear he is and shakes his head. “I meant hockey and you fuckin’ know it.”
“Hey,” I hold up my index finger, waggling it at him in a ‘no no’ motion. “Language. There are children present.”
Seated beside me, Marshall sniggers. “Yeah,” he says, “you.”
Marshall is…not the sharpest crayon in the box, but he’s a ray of sunshine and, though I don’t quite understand how or why, he’s one of the only people who ever gets a genuine smile or laugh out of Izzy.
Case in point: my roommate snorts. “Good one,” he says.
I don’t tell either of them that, no, the joke was actually really lame, because that would be cruel. But, across the table, I catch Noah’s glance and we share a look that says it all.
“Anyway,” Noah dips one of his fries into the puddle of ketchup on his plate, “whodoyou think is getting the C this year? Because Holland graduated last year.”
“Didn’t Bellport pick him up?” Marshall asks, then leans over the table and steals one of Noah’s fries.
“No, I think it was Pittsburgh maybe?” I feel a little bad that I didn’t pay all that much attention to the draft last year. But I’ve had other things on my mind. “We’ll see if he gets any time on the ice, though. He might just warm the bench for a while.”
“Cold,” Noah tells me.
“Yeah, because it’s ice hockey,” Marshall nods.
That wasnota joke.
I’m about to open my mouth to finally answer Izzy’s question when a loud, petulant, “I want chocolate milk!” resonates through the dining space.
We all turn in our seats, drawn by the noise, and I suddenly remember my original distraction.
Cute guy with a cute kid. AKA: catnip for one Gabriel Tomas Nagy (that is, me).
The guy has unkempt light brown hair and hazel-green eyes. He’s short —I know because he wasn’t any taller than Ma when she led him to his table earlier— and has a kind of rounded face that makes determining his age difficult. He doesn’t look much older than me, but the kid —redheaded, but with the same color eyes— has to be at least four or five-years-old.
They both look a little rumpled around the edges. The guy himself seems tired and kind of…defeated? Well, he does if the slump of his shoulders is anything to go by, anyway. Plus, he has dark circles under his pretty eyes.
But he is kind, though firm, when he denies the kid his milk, which has me holding my breath. Tired, hangry kids aren’t known for handling the word ‘no’ with grace and aplomb.
It seems like the kid might actually be okay with the refusal, and I breathe a sigh of relief for the dude. Then Ma’s voice carries over to our table. “Oh, honey, I’m so sorry…”
She mouths something at the cute guy, and I can see the moment whatever she’s said registers. His face falls, and he sends a glance filled with trepidation in the kid’s direction. Then he closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and leans down to murmur something gently in the kid’s ear.
The kid blinks, then his little face crumples as he lets out a loud wail. “But youpromisedchicken nuggets, Daddy!”
Cute Guy’s lower lip wobbles and he looks up at Ma helplessly before trying to soothe his kid. My heart goes out to him, because if I thought he looked tired before, it’s nothing on how absolutely exhausted he seemsnow.
“Uh,” Noah says as I push my chair back, “what the hell are you doing?”
I’m out of my seat and dropping my paper napkin onto my half-empty plate before I even know the answer. “I’m gonna see if I can help.”
“Damnit, Gabe,” Izzy huffs, “leave them be.”
Turning my back on my table, I ignore him and cross the space to where the little boy is still crying and begging for nuggets.
“I’m so sorry,” Cute Guy is telling Ma. He glances up at me, then back at her, “I’ll just…get something to go and we’ll get out of your hair. It’s been a long day, and I know we’re causing a scene, I just…” his breathing hitches, and my heart gives a squeeze.
