I sniff. “That sounds nice. Like it’d be peaceful.”
We sit in silence for a moment or two. The lavender dispenser on the shelf behind Roberta releases a delicate puff, breaking the quiet.
“I think I’m ready,” I whisper. “Ready to stop running from what I’m afraid of and start living for what I want.”
“And what do you want, Erin?”
I breathe in deep and let it go, my entire body lighter than it has been in years.
“Chase.”
Five days.
Five days since our date. Since I kissed the softest lips on the planet. Since I heard her laugh and saw that beautiful smile that hits me like a body check.
Five days of absolute torture.
I miss her.
Fuck. I miss her so much.
This wholegiving her spacething is killing me. I’m trying to be patient. I’m trying to honor what I said to her that night, but it’s so fucking hard because I just want to go to her. Every time I think about driving over to her place, I remind myself that she’ll come to me when she’s ready.
I want her in my arms. Instead, I’m holding a pizza peel, thanks to Valerie and her social media content ideas. She put out a poll asking fans what they wanted to see from the Tornadoes, and apparently, making pizzas won by a landslide.
Now, we’re at Rink-side Slice, dressed in aprons and hairnets. The joint is packed with fans, their phones out and music blasting. Tomato sauce and subtle notes of cheese linger in the air.
The rules are simple. Fans step up and pick which player they want to make their pizza.
“Alright, Tornadoes,” Valerie calls from the counter. “Whoever makes the most pizzas by midnight gets to pick the charity.”
“Pretty sure the charity should be calledBuy Oliver Some Humility,” Logan mutters beside me while tying his apron.
“Green is not your color, rookie,” Oliver fires back playfully, stretching his dough.
“Rookie’s right—you look like you’re auditioning for a cooking show,” I say as Hayes snorts beside us. “And ease up on the cheese. Who are you, Oprah?”
“You get mozzarella! You get mozzarella! You get mozzarella!” Rudy yells, flicking cheese into the air like confetti. The fans eat it up.
Valerie, not so much.
“Focus, boys,” she says, clapping once before looking down at her clipboard. “Harper, you’ve only made… seven pizzas.”
“Eight,” I correct. “And at least all of mine are round. Unlike Oliver’s. Every one of his is shaped like a different continent.”
Oliver gasps, the sound so theatrical it could almost be performed on stage. “This is abstract art,” he says, lifting his pizza dough. “Don’t be hating on my creativity.”
A blob of dough smacks him in the cheek, and before Valerie can finish yelling, “If anyone so much asthinksof throwing sau—” a red splatter hits her cardigan.
Oh, shit.
Austin’s chuckle breaks the silence as he lowers the ladle.
“Watch your back pole hugger, it’s pranking season,” she deadpans.
“I’m shaking in my crease,Princess,” Austin retorts.
Logan smirks.
