He leaned against the counter with easyfamiliarity. “This is my friend Skyler. He’s lived in town for three years and never been here. Can you believe that? I’m showing him how real Floridians eat.”
Rosa looked me up and down with the assessing gaze of someone who’d seen a lot of tourists come through. Whatever she saw must have passed muster, because she nodded.
“First-timer, eh? We’ll take care of you. You like it spicy?”
Jacks choked, coughing into his fist.
I shrugged and said, “I can do spicy.”
“Good. Some of these hockey boys, they can’t handle nothing.” She winked at me, and I realized with a jolt that she’d recognized me. Thankfully, she had the good grace not to make a fuss. She didn’t ask for a photo or anything, simply turned to start assembling our order like I was any other customer.
I liked her immediately.
We ordered at the window—Jacks rattling off his usual while walking me through the options—then grabbed drinks from a cooler that had been retrofitted into what I was pretty sure used to be a bus wheel well. It washorchatafor both of us, because Jacks insisted it was “life-changing.”
“If it’s not life-changing, you owe me another lunch,” I said.
“Deal. But it will be. Prepare to have your tastebuds permanently altered.”
We claimed a picnic table in the shade of one of the umbrellas. The bench was weathered and wobbly, and when we sat down across from each other, our knees bumped underneath. The contact sent a jolt through me, warm and electric, but Jacks only shifted and kept talking.
“So,” he said, settling in. “Game-winning goal with 3.7 seconds left. Walk me through it.”
“You watched?”
Jacks scoffed as though I’d called his mother the whore of Babylon. “Benji almost broke a glass when you scored. It’s the only time I’ve ever seen him drop anything. Finn had to restrain him from climbing onto the counter and dancing.”
I laughed, picturing it. “Please tell me someone got video.”
“It’s already on the Barbacks Instagram.” Jacks leaned forward, elbows on the table. “But seriously. What was going through your head?”
“Honestly? Nothing. That’s the weird part. Coach drew up the play, Erik made the pass, and I . . . reacted. Muscle memory took over.”
“That’s so insane. You had the whole city watching, thousands of people in the arena holding their breath, and your brain went blank?”
“Pretty much. You know how it is. The thinkinghappens before, in practice, in film study, during all the prep work. But in the moment?” I shrugged. “You trust that you’ve done the work and let your body take over.”
Jacks looked fascinated, maybe. Or impressed. It made something warm curl in my chest.
“Was it like that in football?” I asked. “The big moments?”
“Sometimes. The best plays were always the ones where I stopped thinking, read the offense and moved.” A shadow crossed his face, there and gone. “I think that’s the thing I miss most, honestly, that flow state, when everything clicks and you’re not a person anymore; you’re part of something bigger. I mean, I miss the guys, too. Being part of a giant brotherhood, even with some knuckleheads you might not wish were related to you.”
“Yeah.” I nodded. “That’s it.”
A server appeared—a guy about our age who’d made the trek from the kitchen bus with two overloaded plates. Thecarnitastacos were works of art: soft corn tortillas piled high with tender pork, fresh cilantro, diced onions, and asalsa verdethat smelled like heaven.
For a few delicious minutes, conversation gave way to eating.
Jacks wasn’t wrong about thecarnitas. They wereincredible—tender, perfectly seasoned, with a char on the edges that added the right amount of crunch. Thehorchatawas cold and sweet, cinnamon and vanilla cutting through the richness of the meat.
“Okay,” I admitted around a mouthful. “I admit it. My life has been changed by spicy pork.”
“Told you.”
“Don’t be smug.”
“I’m always smug when I’m right. It’s a character flaw.”
