“I just spent at least two hours trying to keep Brooks from embarrassing me in front of Coach. I need fuel.”
Peter grins. “You mean embarrassing you on the ice or just by existing? How gay do you think that guy is? He's hot for you. Even I can tell that.”
I shoot him a look, but he just laughs harder.
The waitress swings by—probably our age, blonde hair in a messy bun, eyeliner sharp enough to cut. She leans on the table, her gaze sliding to me first.
“What can I get you boys today?” Her voice has that lilting, flirty edge, and she’s smiling in a way that probably makes most guys trip over themselves.
I order a burger and fries. She tucks a strand of hairbehind her ear and calls me “hon” when she jots it down. Peter orders a club sandwich, and when she walks away, he leans across the table.
“Dude. She was into you. Like, capital I. And you didn’t even blink.”
I shrug and take a sip of my water.
“I don’t know how you live like that,” he mutters, shaking his head. “If a girl like that looked at me like that? I’d already be imagining what she looks like in bed, moaning my name.”
I glance toward the counter, watching her laugh with the cook. She’s pretty—objectively, I mean, even I can see that, and I’m not into girls. The curve of her smile, the way she tosses her hair, she’s probably even considered beautiful.
But there’s no spark. No pull. Not like the electric jolt I felt earlier whenever Logan so much as smirked at me.
I lean back in the booth, trying to play it off. I’m used to these conversations with him. He is so into girls, I don’t think he has another setting. I’m a little surprised that he even picked up on the fact that Logan is gay, even if he was being obvious in his flirting. Peter is a lot of things, but observant really isn’t one of them. “Not my type.”
Peter blinks. “You have a type?”
“Sure.” I shrug, keeping my tone light and easy. “Not her, though.”
He studies me like he’s trying to decode something, but before he can press, the food arrives, and I bury myself in my burger.
Peter dives into his sandwich like he hasn’t eaten in days, but his eyes keep flicking to me, as though he’s waiting for me to crack.
“You’re weird, you know that?” he says around a mouthful of bread and bacon. “Hot waitress. Nothing. Thatbrunette at the frat party last week? Also nothing. You’re like…a monk. You turn them all down. Do you need me to play wingman for you?”
I choke on my fry. “I’m not a monk. And I don’t need your help to find a hook-up.”
“Pretty close,” he mutters, smirking. “And you help me all the time, dude, I can return the favor.”
I roll my eyes and focus on my burger. If I keep chewing, I can’t say something stupid. If I keep chewing, I don’t have to admit that maybe—maybe—he’s not wrong. It might be time for a discreet hook-up on Prism. As long as they aren’t students here, the city is pretty big, and I’m not opposed to driving a little bit. It’s my go-to when I get too tense—a little release, no strings sort of night. No repeats. I don’t need the distraction of feelings.
Peter changes the subject to practice, to Coach’s obsession with our timing. Nationals. Scouting. Our best shot yet. It’s safer ground, and I let him ramble while I nod and shovel in fries.
Halfway through my burger, the bell over the door jingles. I glance up—and nearly swallow my tongue.
Logan strolls in like he owns the place, dark hair damp from his shower, a navy Henley stretched across his chest like it was custom-made. He’s got that lazy, cocky smile that makes my stomach drop straight to my sneakers.
Daniel and Eli are by his side, the three of them laughing like old friends even though they’ve known each other for, what, five minutes? Of course they’ve found the only other openly gay guy in the locker room and adopted him. That’s very on brand for both of them.
Logan spots me instantly. His grin widens like this is the punchline of some cosmic joke.
Peter notices my death grip on my burger and follows my gaze. “Oh my God,” he whispers. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
I yank my attention away from them and stare down at my fries. Maybe if I don’t make eye contact, he’ll?—
“Hey, Captain.”
Nope. He’s at the table.
I force myself to look up. “Brooks.”
