Chapter 2 #4
“You already helped with university tuition, and that was a big enough deal. I had it mostly handled. I’ll get a new job and find a decent apartment and be out of your hair.”
The elevator stops on the eleventh floor, and we pick up an adorable elderly couple.
We’re silent for the rest of the trip. I exit after the couple, and we troop out to the car.
Two of the bins fit in the trunk, which seems like a minor miracle.
The third takes up seventy-five percent of the back seat.
I try to savor ice cream sandwiches because they’re my favorite indulgence, but these are melting, so I’m forced to devour mine while standing beside Flip’s car. Afterward, I cram myself into the back seat again.
“East Side’s?” Flip asks.
I tuck my hands between my legs. “We don’t have to. I know you probably have stuff to do.”
“You hungry, Tris? Wanna go for lunch?” Flip asks.
“I’m always hungry,” Tristan replies.
Two minutes later, we pull into East Side’s parking lot.
Tristan snorts. “Dude, I haven’t been here since we got drafted. Do they still do the unlimited salad and garlic bread?”
“They sure do.”
“Ah, man. They’re gonna hate us by the time we leave.” Tristan hops out of the car.
I flip the seat forward and push it as far as I can to make it easier to get out, but he closes the door on me. Obviously the being-nice blip is over. “For fuck’s sake.” I grab the handle, opening it back up.
“I forgot you were back there.” He holds the seat belt for me again.
I fight the sting of that comment and extricate myself from the back seat. Once I’m back on my feet, I stretch out the kinks. Despite the ice cream sandwich, I’m starving. Chocolate chip cookies aren’t a filling breakfast.
The hostess takes us to a booth, and I scoot in first, Flip taking the spot beside me. Tristan sits across from us. He sets his phone on the table, screen-side up. It flashes every few seconds with a new notification.
The server comes over to take our drink order.
“Hey! I didn’t expect to see you for another week!” Adelaide, our usual server, greets us with a wide smile as she approaches. “Oh! And you brought a friend.”
“Hey, Addy. This is Tristan. We were in the area and figured we’d stop for lunch.” Flip’s smile makes her blush.
“Well, that’s a nice surprise.” She turns her dimpled grin to Tristan. “Hi. Welcome to East Side’s.”
He gives her a smirky smile and chin tip in greeting.
Such a dirtbag. He’d better not try to pick up Addy and ruin me ever coming back here.
Addy turns back to us. “Should I start you two with the usual?” She glances over her shoulder before lowering her voice. “The regular manager isn’t on, so it might be harder to get two salads on the table at a time, but I’ll bring two loaves of bread and put in a second salad order right away.”
“Don’t get in shit on our account,” Flip says.
She waves a dismissive hand. “I’ll tell him we’ve got a pro hockey player in the restaurant, and he’ll probably have a mini coronary. It’ll be fine.”
She takes our drink orders and leaves us to look at the menu. I don’t need it. I get the same thing every time.
“Have you slept with that girl or something?” Tristan asks Flip once she’s gone.
“Nah, man. Rix and I come here once a month. She’s usually our server.” Flip looks through the menu. He typically orders one of three things.
“You could go somewhere nicer. With fewer screaming children.” Tristan glances to our right, where a family with three kids, all under six, fight over crayons.
The toddler is smashing goldfish crackers into dust and screaming his head off.
Who is he to look down on those who appreciate unlimited salad and garlic bread?
Flip shrugs. “It’s where we go.”
“You’re more than welcome to leave if the noise bothers you,” I say with a smile.
Our server returns with drinks. Flip and I have Coke, and Tristan has a draft beer.
We order our mains, and a minute later, the salad and garlic bread arrive.
Addy waits while we empty the bowl onto our three side plates and tells us she’ll be right back with salad round two.
I spread my napkin on my lap and cross my legs.
My foot connects with a shin because Tristan is manspreading.
“Sorry,” I mumble around a mouthful of delicious salad.
He grunts but doesn’t move his leg or comment otherwise.
Every few minutes, Addy passes by with another bowl of salad and more garlic bread.
Flip eats like someone is going to steal his food, while Tristan is methodical and mannerly. He grew up in an upper-middle-class family, so having manners and not eating like every meal might be the last one he’ll get makes sense.
I’m already stuffed to bursting by the time our main courses arrive.
Tristan has manspread so much that his foot keeps hitting mine.
Even without trying, he manages to take up all the space—and not just on his side of the booth, but in the room.
Everyone who passes the table gives him a second glance.
I kick him not-so-gently. “Can you stop?”
He arches a brow while he twirls noodles on his fork with the help of a spoon. “You’re the one kicking me.”
“Because you’re manspreading into my space.”
“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m six-five, and these booths aren’t designed to hold someone my size, let alone two people this size.” He motions to Flip.
“You keep stepping on my foot!”
“And you keep kicking me in the shin. Seems like maybe we’re even.”
“Can you cut the bickering for two minutes? You’re worse than that table over there.” Flip nods toward a table of tween-girl soccer players who are shrieking and taking endless selfies.
I cross my legs and angle my body toward the edge of the booth.
My heel rests against Tristan’s calf. I peek under the table.
He and my brother are strategically positioned so their legs don’t hit each other.
I stop bitching and pop a slice of spicy sausage into my mouth, even though I’m already full.
The whole point of eating at East Side’s is to fill up on salad and bread and take my pasta home. I can usually make it last for an additional lunch and dinner the next day.
A minute later, a pair of twelve-year-old boys walk by and do a double take. They’re wearing Terror ball caps with the raging goose mascot emblem. One elbows the other. “Holy crap. Flip Madden and Tristan Stiles?”
Flip’s grin is instantaneous—he loves the fame.
Tristan takes a moment to catch up, but he, too, smiles.
The shift is disarming, in part because all it does is make him hotter.
He and Flip entertain the boys for a minute, scooting out of their seats to take a few photos and sign the boys’ hats before their parents usher them back to their table.
“You just made their day.” I don’t want to find how kind Tristan was to those boys attractive.
“Part of the job.” Tristan’s phone lights up, and he frowns as he taps on the screen. “Well, shit.”
“Shit what?” Flip asks through a mouthful of noodles.
“Hendrix is coming back. I thought he was still recovering from knee surgery.”
“Guess he healed up better than they expected,” Flip says.
“Yeah, I guess.” Tristan pokes at his noodles but doesn’t spin any onto his fork.
“It’ll be good to have him back on the ice,” Flip offers.
“Yeah.” Tristan rubs his bottom lip. He doesn’t look like he feels the same way. “I wonder what line they’ll start him on?”
“You’re talking about Hollis Hendrix, right?” I ask.
“Yeah. He’s been out since the middle of last season,” Flip says.
“I thought he might retire. Isn’t he in his mid-thirties?” I spear a mushroom.
“He’s thirty-three.”
“How many years are left on his contract?” I ask.
“Two,” Flip replies.
“So maybe they want to make the most of whatever time he has left? Especially since he’s pulling six million a year.
” Flip has three more years on his current contract with Toronto, but I don’t know about Tristan.
They’re peaking in their careers while Hendrix is on his way out.
He’s played for the league since he was nineteen, which is a solid run.
Tristan’s brows are pulled together, and he’s staring at me with an unreadable expression.
“What?” I ask.
His phone buzzes, dragging his attention away. “I’ll be back in a minute.” He slides out of the booth, his phone already at his ear. “Hey, Brody, everything okay?”
Brody is Tristan’s youngest brother. I think he’s still in high school.
He’s gone so long we have the remains of his lunch boxed up, and I offer to pay as a thank you. But Flip refuses and covers it.
Tristan is quiet on the ride home, and as soon as we arrive, he hops in his flashy sports car and says he needs to take care of something.
“Is he okay?” I ask. Not that I care about his feelings.
“Yeah. He’ll be fine. Brody has hockey competitions coming up, and Tristan gets on the ice with him when he can.”
“What about his dad?”
“He’s not a pro hockey player, and Brody’s on track to be drafted this year.”
“Right. That makes sense.”
I try to fit that piece somewhere into the puzzle. I don’t know how to take Tristan. He’s still a jerk, but he stood up for me today. And then there was whatever happened in the car.
Flip pops the trunk. “Come on, let’s get you settled in the loft.”
“I promise it won’t be for long.”