Ren, @renjacobsattheroyal,mostly posts photos of the fossil collection, with the occasional photo of a cocktail and her friend from the game. Imani—the dropper.
She’s even got a dinosaur emoji in her bio.
My heart beats funny at that. “Cute. Notice you didn’t use theT. rexone though.”
Ren purses her lips. “TheT. rexgets too much attention as it is.”
“Totally agree.” I nod while I bring up the photo and type out a caption.
Her chin lifts. “Do you really?”
“Well—” I hit post, silencing my phone so the onslaught of notifications I’ll get won’t break the speaker. I haven’t posted since an obligatory back-on-the-field photo at the start of the season. I turn to her, shrugging. “You raise some good points. How many questions were about theT. rextonight? Probably more than any other dinosaur.”
Her eyes light up. “Miller—this is exactly what I’m talking about. You get it.” She points at me, bringing up the tagged photo on her own phone.
Her gaze skates over the picture, the likes already accumulating, but she pauses when it drops to the caption.
big trivia champions—guess who’s smarter?
(i’ll give you three, but you’ll only need one)
Her smile tilts into a frown, and a crease sketches between her brows. She chews the inside of her cheek. “You shouldn’t do that.”
“What?”
“Talk down to yourself.” She points at the screen, finger tapping the caption. “There are all different kinds of intelligence.”
“You think my ability to read a play on the field is on the same level as knowing what kind of chemicals and whatever are found in fossils?” I try for a laugh, but she gives me a flat look. “I was just—” I scrub my jaw. “It was a joke, at my own expense, but uh, maybe not a very nice one.”
“It wasn’t. You should consider not making them anymore,” she says softly, tapping the photo with a like, typing something out in the comments, and hitting the Follow button before shoving her phone into the pocket of her sweater. She smiles again, holding up the trophy. “What should we do to celebrate?”
I exhale, nodding. She might be onto something. Other people might say I’m stupid, but I don’t have to repeat it. I give her a smile, half apologetic, half earnest. “I’m, uh, starving actually. Haven’t eaten since the plane. Any chance you want to grab something to eat?”
“In a city with some of the best food in the country, literally, the Danforth is right there”—Ren throws a hand behind her, wavingthe trophy—“you pick a cart and street meat, outside the GO station? This isn’t even a desirable location for hot dogs, Miller.”
I cut her a look, cocking a brow. “So you don’t want one?”
She folds her arms across her chest, chin lifting. “I didn’t say that.”
“In case you were wondering, the best location for hot dogs is outside the stadium,” I tell her, shoving my hands in my pockets, waiting for the line to move forward.
“You’re kidding,” she says flatly.
I shake my head. “Nope. Best hot dogs, swear to god. If I’m low on protein for the day, I’ll run out and grab a few before games sometimes.”
“A few? How does that not make you sick? Wait—I forgot. Twenty-seven-year-old metabolism.” She shakes her head, slow and exaggerated, before she pats me on the shoulder. “Enjoy it while it lasts, it’s all downhill after thirty.”
Doubt it. Not when thirty-two-year-old Ren Jacobs stands there looking like that, I think.
I snort. “I’ll keep that in mind.” The line ahead of us clears, and the man behind the counter peers down at us expectantly. I glance sideways at Ren. “You first.”
For someone who passed judgement on my hot-dog stand selection, she knows exactly what to order.
It’s a sight—Ren Jacobs standing tall, asking for what she wants with no hesitation. Shoulders straight, hair down her back, a spill of red wine under the night sky.
She tries to pay, and we get in some sort of childlike fight over the machine, and she threatens to stab me with the tail of the velociraptor until I take a step back, hands raised in concession.
Neither of us says anything, but we smile through the silence, dropping down on the nearby curb to eat.
