“Testin’ you out more like.” He smirked.
The corner of my mouth tugged up. “We play on the same side of the ball. The only testing we need to do is to see if you can keep the defense away from the QB long enough for him to find me streaking downfield.”
“Don’t you worry about that, soldier.”
When we walked through the doors of Stromboli’s, the heavenly aromas of baked bread, melty cheese, and beer assailed my nostrils. Though it had only been half an hour since I powered through a burger, fries, salad, and a big-ass chocolate brownie in the cafeteria, my mouth watered for a slice or two of pizza and a brew.
Scanning for a table, I took in how the place was one long room with a few round tables in the front by the door, a few more in the back past the long bar, and a row of booths lining the wall across from the bar, ending near a doorway in the back. The place was fairly busy for a Sunday evening, but a booth near the back opened up, so we wandered over and slid into it as a pretty blonde server wiped the table.
“What can I get you to drink?” she asked.
I shot a glance across the table at Tamatoa. “We’re new here. What’s good?”
“Our summer specialty is a Belgian wheat. We also have lager, IPA, hefeweizen. Whatever you’re in the mood for.”
“I’ll take the Belgian wheat,” I said.
My roommate said, “Make it a pitcher. I’m thirsty.”
Though the server had come off as a bit tired while she listed off the available beers on tap, she perked right up when he unleashed that grin of his. I shook my head and stifled a laugh.
“Menus are on the table.” She indicated four or five laminated folders tucked in a holder against the wall of the booth. “I’ll be back in a minute with your beer.”
“How much privacy are you going to need during camp?” I asked, noticing Tamatoa’s eyes were following the server’s ass as she walked over to the bar.
A laugh barked out of him. “You’re safe. I like to go to the girl’s place.”
My brows went up.
“Makes it easier to slip away afterward.” He dropped that grin again, and I shook my head.
As we perused the menu, a large body at the front of our booth blocked some of the light.
“Couldn’t help overhearing the two of you talking. You two joining the Wildcats?”
“That’s the plan,” I said.
The guy—who wasn’t much smaller than the warrior child—sized us up, his focus on Tamatoa. “Which side of the line do you play on?” he asked.
“Offense,” Tamatoa boomed, and I hid a smile.
In a short time, I’d already started figuring out his tells.
The new guy beamed at him. “Good to know. The O-line needs some guys your size.” Turning his attention to me, he asked, “How ’bout you?”
“Receiver.”
If anything his smile grew even broader. “We need someone with hands to take the pressure off Callahan.” Extending his hand to Tamatoa first, he said, “Finn McCabe, D-end.”
“Tamatoa Hall. Left guard.”
“Danny Chambers.”
We shook.
“Mind if I join you?” Finn asked.
Before either of us could answer, he was sliding into the booth beside Tamatoa.
