While we waited for the sandwich geniuses to build our subs, I stepped over to the eatery’s namesake—a massive wooden barrel tucked in the corner of the room behind two of the three tables in the glorified drive-thru space of the shop. I snagged a paper bag from the receptacle on the wall and opened the lid to reveal hundreds of yummy whole dill pickles floating in a briny bath. Using the tongs hanging from a hook on the barrel itself, I pulled out a fat pickle and stuffed it in my bag. When Danny joined me, I asked, “You want one?”
“Hell yeah.”
I handed him the one I’d already bagged and went for another one. After I returned the tongs to their hook and replaced the lid on the barrel, I grinned at my friend over the top of my bag and chomped down on my salty, crisp, vinegary treat. Reflexively he covered his crotch with his free hand, his expression aghast.
“Easy there, tiger. No need for violence.”
Too late I realized that in my excitement to enjoy one of my favorite treats, I’d completely whiffed a chance to be subtly seductive. Then again, I’d never been much good at flirting, which was likely another reason Danny had only ever seen me as a friend. A memory of Hailey toying with her braid and drawing attention to her chest flitted through my head, followed by a related thought: instead of rolling my eyes at her, maybe I should take notes.
Though my face heated, I brazened it out. “Didn’t mean to shrivel your pickle,” I said before taking another healthy bite of dilly goodness.
He barked out a laugh. “You’re the best, T.”
Mercifully, the kid at the register interrupted, calling on us to pick up our subs.
In one thoughtless move, I’d managed to sabotage whatever was going on between us on the walk over when Danny had silently insisted I touch him the entire way. Except this was Danny. Nothing had been going on while we’d strolled down the street between the Coffee Kiosk and Pickle Barrel.
We took our sandwiches and pickles outside to the high-top tables built from old pickle barrels. Towering honey-locust trees shaded the stone patio in front of the place. Remnants of the trees’ long seedpods were scattered among the pink-and-white petunias in the narrow flower beds bordering a space exactly big enough to host four tables and chairs.
For a few minutes we ate in silence.
An appreciative “mmm” came from Danny’s throat before he wiped a napkin over his mouth. “You were right. Best lunch place in town.”
Shaking my head, I said, “You’ve been in town a week. How many places have you tried?”
His eyes twinkled. “Beats the dorms hands down.”
“Everything beats school food. I mean, the college cafeterias here are pretty good, but it’s still institutional. No way around that.” I swallowed another bite of my delicious pastrami sub. “Have you eaten anywhere off-campus yet?”
“A place called Stromboli’s. I gather it’s the team’s hangout.” Picking up his soft drink, he sucked some down though the straw and set the cup back on the table. “Their pizzas and wings are pretty damn good.”
“Agreed, though I usually do take-out from there.” At his quizzical look, I added, “Stromboli’s is a jock bar, not a place where I normally hang out.”
“Since when do you have a problem with jocks?” Though he asked the question casually, his avid expression told me he wanted an answer.
“I don’t have a problem with athletes.” I shrugged. “But some of the guys who play for the Wildcats get a bit caught up in all the female attention that comes with playing for the team. They aren’t always clear on who is and who isn’t a groupie.”
A thunderous expression crossed his features before he schooled them into something bland. “Football groupies, huh?”
“Football, basketball, hockey, track—they all come with their ‘fans.’” I softened my air quotes with a little smile.
Before he’d decided to attend classes at Mountain State and play for the ’Cats, I hadn’t paid much attention to the players and the women who wanted to play with them—unless one of those players mistook me for one of those women and I had to set him straight. Now I had attitude, and I needed to get over myself pronto. No doubt Danny would enjoy all that adulation from willing women who were on the same page as him: focused on a good time and nothing more. Which, of course, was none of my business.
“The other night when my dorm roommate and I ate there, I didn’t see many women at all.” He finished his sandwich, wadded up the wrapper, and glanced around for a trash can. Locating it near the building, he stood and tossed in his trash.
“Classes haven’t started. The groupies are mostly coeds with a few townies tossed in. Trust me. They’ll be hanging around soon.” I wrapped up half of my sandwich to take home and finished off my pickle. “What?” I asked when I caught the weird look in his eyes as I swallowed the last bite.
If it had been anyone else but Danny, I might have thought I’d seen desire lurking there. Crunching up my pickle wrapper, I stood and tossed it in the trash, talking myself down from the ridiculous notion.
“You’re not finishing that?” He nodded to my sandwich.
“The great thing about these subs is one equals two meals.” I smirked. “For normal people anyway. Maybe not football players.”
“And yet here you are, hanging out with a football player.”
“Good thing for you that you were my friend first then, huh?”
He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his shorts. “Yeah. I guess.”
