“I just got out of an ice bath,” he says.
I refrain from rolling my eyes. “Why are we going into the city—again?” We were here yesterday.
“I told you, I’m taking you out.”
“Where exactly? And why?” I had another lousy practice, and my knee won’t stop bouncing. My game is off. I need to be on the field, not spending useless time in the city. My teammates are giving me side eyes every time I turn around. If I hear “lucky charm” muttered beneath another Red Tail’s breath, I’m going to pummel someone. Most likely Lucca.
Zev lets out a long, tired breath. “Let’s talk.”
“About?”
“You. The breakup. Your game. How you’re feeling.”
I snuff and grunt and sound like a regular fire-breathingdragon. “Did you dupe me into leaving practice and trading the comfort of my home for this drive so you could hound me about my ex? Because I’m fine.” My mother and sister are hounding me plenty. I don’t need Zev doing it too.
Zev does roll his eyes. “So dramatic. I didn’t dupe you. And I’ll take you back after I’ve eaten,pansy. But you need to talk to someone. You need something outside of the team, Cal. Because whatever this thing with Simone is, it’s got you messed up. It’s affecting more than just your personal life.”
“There is nothingwith Simone. She’s gone, and I’m good. Better, even.”
“Thereisa thing. That girl was toxic. And while she may be gone, it’s like her residual negative energy is sticking to you.”
I pull in a breath through my teeth and groan. There’s no need for this conversation. I’m not broken-hearted, I’m just…off. I’ll get my mojo back. If the guys would allow me to focus.
But before I can say anything more, the maps app on Zev’s phone starts spouting directions. I grind my teeth. I’m starving. I need to eat. I’ll ream my friend out after he’s fed me.
Zev pulls into a parking space, an old diner before us. We drove all the way to Reno for greasy café food? We don’t eat greasy café food.
“What is this?” I say, my nose wrinkling.
“Stacks.” He points to the worn wooden sign with the restaurant’s name.
“This doesn’t look Jacobson-approved.” Our coach is pretty hard-core on what we eat, especially while we’re in season. With good reason.
“I won’t tell if you don’t.”
Okay—that’s not like Zev.
“What’s going on? Why did we drive to Reno for pancakes?” I stare at him. But Zev just smiles up at the old building, steam billowing from the stacks.
“I haven’t had a flapjack in six months, okay? It sounded good.”
I have zero plans to consume anything here, but Zev is opening his driver’s door and starting for the entrance before I have time to protest a second time.
I scramble out my door before Zev locks me in this heat-filled car. I wouldn’t put it past him tonight. He’s acting strange.
Almost tripping over my own feet—not a great sign for a professional athlete—I meet him at the front of the building before he can enter.
“What is up with you, man?” I ask.
But Zev only snickers. “Smell that?” he says, holding the handle of the door.
Is he talking about this hole-in-the-wall? Because I smell quick-burned energy and dehydration.
“Flapjacks.” His brows bounce once, and then he’s inside, sitting at a booth and opening a menu.
I grunt and slide on the bench opposite him.
I open one of the faded, laminated menus already on the table and scroll through my options. At least it’s clean.
