“You’ve looked at it six times in the last ten minutes. I counted.”
“Maybe I’m expecting an important call. Or playing Tetris. Or watching porn.”
Benji laughed so hard he doubled over. “Golden boy watching porn on his phone at work? No. Baby boy, just no. And the whole ‘important call thing’? Really? Who’s calling? Your mom? The president? The ghost of football past?”
“You’re hilarious.”
“I know.” He slid closer, abandoning the glasses he was supposed to be drying. “It’s him, isn’t it? Hockey Boy?”
“His name is Skyler.”
“I know his name. I also know you’ve got it bad.” Benji’s voice softened. “How are you doing? With . . . everything?”
I considered lying or deflecting or making a joke and changingthe subject.
But Benji had been through his own romantic disasters. He understood the particular torture of wanting someone you couldn’t have.
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “Confused, mostly. He leaves tomorrow for two weeks, and I keep telling myself that’s a good thing, that it’ll give me time to get some perspective and clear my head.”
“But?”
“But I don’t want him to go.” The words came out quieter than I intended. “Which is insane, because we’re just friends, and friends don’t . . .”
“Don’t what?”
I shook my head. “Nothing. It’s nothing.”
Benji studied me for a long moment. “You know what I think?”
“I have a feeling you’re going to tell me regardless.”
“I think you’re scared. And I think being scared is making you dismiss things that might be real.” He held up a hand before I could interrupt. “I’m not saying he’s secretly gay or that you’re going to ride off into the sunset together. I’m just saying sometimes the things we’re most afraid of are the things we should pay attention to.”
“That’s . . . surprisingly wise.”
“I have my moments.” He grinned. “Now stop moping and help me with these limes. We’ve got a Lightning game to prepare for, and your boyfriend’sgoing to want a good send-off.”
“He’s not my—”
“Save it, sweetie. Cleopatra wants her river back.”
I threw a lime wedge at him, which he dodged with practiced ease.
The evening rush hit harder than one of Erik’s checks. Game night crowds filling every seat, regulars mixing with tourists, everyone buzzing with pre-game energy. I threw myself into work, grateful for the distraction. There was something meditative about the rhythm of a busy shift: stock, pour, clear, repeat. With all the chaos, there was no time to think about anything except the next task ahead.
That night, the Lightning were playing their last home game before the road trip, and the bar was crammed with fans wearing blue and white. I kept my eyes on my work, not looking at the TVs mounted above the bar.
It didn’t help.
Every time the crowd cheered, my attention snapped to the screens anyway.
And every time I glimpsed number 91 skating across the ice, my chest did that stupid Biles maneuver again.
“He’s playing well tonight,” Finn observed, appearing at my elbow during a brief lull. “Two assists already.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“You’re not watching?”
