His grin warmed me all over. “Understood. Call me tonight?”
“As soon as I get back here. Can’t wait, rookie.”
“Me either, captain. Sleep well.”
34/
nico
It had beena perfect spring day: seventy degrees, clear blue sky, and a light breeze that made everything fresh. The temperature dropped in the evening, but after we went to a movie, we were still comfortable in our jackets.
With the playoffs looming, Pack had flown in for a quick visit. In two days, the Warriors would open our series against Pittsburgh; the same night, the Condors would start against Montreal. We were on the edge of professional hockey hell.
We’d spent the entire movie with our thighs pressed together, whispering snarky comments since I liked the movie, but Pack didn’t.
“It was not good,” he said, pulling the door of the corner bakery open.
I shot him a grin. “That’s because you have no taste. Cinematic excellence is clearly wasted on you.”
“Excellence?” He shook his head. “They spent most of the budget on one explosion and a raccoon with human teeth.”
“Artistic choice.”
“Nightmare fuel.”
Inside, it was warm, filled with the smell of coffee, pastries, and melted chocolate. The place was busy, and everyone hadthat Sunday-night look, bracing for the week ahead. Pack and I were the same, pretending we weren’t about to be separated again and worn down by playoff hockey.
He unzipped his jacket as we joined the line. “Okay. I’m getting three things.”
“You say that every time. You’ll get five.”
“You don’t know me.”
I dragged my eyes down his body and back up, and his face went bright red.
“Think I do,” I said. “You ordered two cannoli last time because you didn’t want them to be lonely.”
“They looked sad. And you ate half of one.”
“To support your emotional investment in pastries.”
He bumped me again, gentler this time, and my heart flipped.
“Packo?”
Pack’s face paled as we turned. Two young women were staring at us like we were on display.
“In the flesh,” Pack said. “You like hockey?”
“We like you,” one of them said.
“And we’re so happy for you,” the other added. “About… whatever you’re doing. Whether it’s burying the hatchet or something else, it’s good.”
“Thank you,” I said. “That means a lot.”
Fortunately, the barista asked for their order. As they turned away, I looked at Pack and raised an eyebrow. He nodded.
When it was our turn, he leaned on the glass. “I want a large, iced caramel macchiato, extra drizzle. Lemon tart. Almond croissant. Oh my God, is that a rainbow cookie cheesecake?”
