Chapter 9 Eli
NINE
ELI
My phone buzzes where it’s face down on my desk, the sharp little trill cutting through the quiet. I flip it over and there it is—Max’s name lighting up my screen.
Grinch: Ready for dinner.
That’s all it takes. Butterflies slam into my ribcage as though they’ve been waiting all damn day for permission to wake up.
I’m already toeing into my boots before my brain catches up enough to remind me, this isn’t a date.
Really. Just two guys grabbing food because campus is a ghost town, and eating alone sucks.
Except my pulse doesn’t get the memo.
I tug the laces tight, shrug into my coat, and grab my beanie, glancing at myself in the mirror by the door. No reason to check twice, but I do anyway. Then I’m heading for the lobby, telling myself over and over that this is just dinner.
Not a date.
Except I can’t make myself believe it.
Max is already waiting when I step into the lobby, leaning against the wall by the doors. The first thing that hits me isn’t the sight of him—it’s the scent. That same cologne I’ve caught hints of before, only now it’s stronger, fresher. Like he just put it on.
My breath catches.
Not a date. Fuck.
What if it is a date?
He pushes off the wall with a nod and an almost smile that makes my heart pound in double time. Shit, I’m not going to make it through the next hour if my heart spontaneously combusts.
“Hey, you ready?” he asks.
Uh, yes. I’ve been ready for this for months. I manage a nod as I move toward him. “Yeah, let’s go freeze together.”
We’re alone. The world outside is quiet and white, the snow still falling in slow, lazy drifts under the streetlights. It’s the kind of night people in cheesy romance movies call magical.
We step out into it together, and the cold bites at my cheeks, but the space between us is warm. Close enough that when the path narrows, our shoulders brush; light, accidental, but enough to make my pulse stutter.
Not a date. Definitely not.
Except…it feels like one.
Max pushes the door open, the little bell above it chiming in the otherwise quiet night. He steps aside, holding it for me, and the blast of warmth from inside smells of coffee, bacon, and freshly baked pie.
We’re the only ones here—just a lone waitress behind the counter and the hum of the old heater. Max heads for a booth by the window, sliding into one side, and I take the other. The vinyl squeaks under me, and suddenly my hands feel too big, my coat too heavy, my heartbeat too loud.
Nerves assault me, zipping around in my stomach as if I’ve never sat across from a guy in a diner before. Which is ridiculous…because this really isn’t a date.
Still, the quiet between us feels different. Thicker. As though the whole world outside has gone silent just to watch what happens next.
Max tugs off his beanie, tossing it onto the seat beside him, and rakes a hand through his dark hair until it sticks up in a way that should look messy but somehow just makes him look ridiculously hot.
“You’re staring,” he says, deadpan, one brow raising with amusement.
I snort, shaking my head. “Not even close.”
He smirks, and it’s clear he doesn’t believe me, but he doesn’t mind. The knot in my stomach eases just a little, enough so that when the waitress ambles over with a tired smile and a notepad, I’m not completely choking on the air in my lungs.
“Coffee for me,” Max says, glancing my way. “And…let me guess, you’re gonna ruin yours with hot cocoa and peppermint. Whipped cream, too?”
My lips twitch. “Obviously. Why drink something boring when you can drink dessert?”
His mouth curves, just a little, trying not to smile. “Figures.”
The waitress jots it down, glancing between us as if she can feel the charge hanging in the air. When she heads off, I sink back into the booth, stretching my legs out under the table until they almost—almost—brush his.
“Figures?” I echo, lifting a brow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Max grins, shaking his head as he toys with the edge of the menu. “Just…you’re predictable, Starling. And I’m pretty sure you have a sugar addiction.”
“Predictable?” I fake offense, clutching my chest. “Please. I’m full of surprises, Calder. And if loving sugar is a crime, then lock me up—I’ll go sweetly.”
I hold out my wrists to him, and he laughs.
The sound is warm as it washes over me, giving me a pleasant little buzz of happiness.
I love that I can make him do that. Like maybe I’m not just the guy who sings carols on the ice to annoy his teammates, but someone who can peel a laugh out of him when he least expects it.
The waitress swings by with our drinks, drawing out her notepad, breaking the moment, but I’m still grinning as I glance at Max across the table.
The waitress flips open her pad and looks between us. “So, what can I get you boys tonight?”
“French silk pie,” I say instantly, flashing a grin.
Her pen hovers, waiting, but Max snorts and cuts in before she can jot it down. “As your athletic trainer, I have to recommend something with protein.”
Protein. My brain flashes through a dozen inappropriate places to take that, heat crawling up the back of my neck. I’d like some protein alright, just not the kind he’s thinking.
I clear my throat and pretend to study the menu as though I’m not flustered. “Fine,” I mutter, flipping the page and forcing my grin to stay put. “Burger. That enough protein for you, Calder?”
The corner of his mouth quirks, and I swear his eyes linger on me a fraction too long before he nods.
Whoa.
Did he say that on purpose? To make my brain jump straight into the gutter? Because congratulations, Calder—mission accomplished. My pulse is doing somersaults, and I can’t tell if I want to crawl under the table or climb across it.
Maybe this is a date.
The thought lodges hard in my chest, too big to swallow down. We’re sitting in a booth, snow falling outside, hot drinks steaming between us like some Hallmark setup gone gay—and he’s looking at me like…well, like that.
I pick up my cocoa just to have something to do with my hands, blowing on the whipped cream until I can see the chocolate beneath as if it requires full concentration.
Max leans back against his side of the booth, stretching out and taking up space. The move shifts his leg under the table until his foot nudges mine, light, almost careless. Except there’s no way he doesn’t notice, not with how I go stock-still at the contact.
“You always get this worked up over food?” he asks, smirking, knowing exactly how off balance I am. And I have a feeling he’s doing it on purpose.
I choke on a laugh, trying not to flinch away or lean in. God, my brain is so loud. “Only when someone tries to police my dessert choices,” I shoot back, aiming for playful and hopefully not flushed and obvious.
His foot doesn’t move. If anything, it presses a little firmer against mine, deliberate now.
“Dessert normally comes after you eat real food. And it could just mean I’m looking out for you,” he says, voice low enough to curl under my skin in all the wrong—or right—ways.
My pulse spikes, cocoa forgotten. Looking out for me. Uh-huh. Or is he flirting? I can’t tell anymore.
Maybe both.
“Looking out for me?” I echo, raising a brow as if I’m not two seconds from melting into the floor. I nudge his foot back under the table, casual, returning the favor. “That what you call it?”
Max’s smirk deepens. “What would you call it, Starling?”
God, the way he says my name. I sip my cocoa slowly, letting the whipped cream brush my lip, pretending I’m composed when my brain is a mess. “I’d call it interfering with my constitutional right to pie.”
He huffs out a laugh, shaking his head, but his foot stays exactly where it is. “Guess I’ll plead guilty, then.”
I set my cup down, meeting his gaze across the booth. My grin’s sharp, maybe a little too daring. “Good. Because I don’t let people off easy.”
I lick the whipped cream from my upper lip, and I swear fire flares in his green eyes. My stomach drops like I’m on a roller coaster, my pulse kicking hard against my ribs. I want to say something, anything, but I don’t have time before the waitress reappears.
She slides a burger in front of me, another in front of Max, and two baskets of fries between us. The spell snaps, replaced with the clatter of plates and the faint hiss of the coffee machine behind the counter.
“Enjoy, boys,” she chirps before heading back toward the kitchen.
I pick up a fry and take a bite, forcing my grin back into place as if nothing just happened. “Guess I’m officially on the Calder-approved meal plan,” I say lightly, even though my brain is still stuck on the way his eyes burned a second ago.
He picks up his burger, tilts his head, and grins. “Could’ve been worse. I might’ve banned you from dessert altogether. Including those sugary drinks.” His gaze dips slowly to my hot cocoa before tracing over my lips and then meeting my steady stare head-on.
I roll my eyes, but my heart’s still racing. “Yeah, good luck with that.”
He chuckles, low and easy, and for a second I forget how to breathe. I take a huge bite of my burger just to ground myself, chewing as if it can drown out the tension buzzing between us.
“Careful,” he says, eyes glinting. “Don’t choke. Wouldn’t look good on my résumé if my starting goalie drops dead in a diner.”
I snort. “You’d have to explain it in interviews, huh? How’d your player die? Oh, burger-related incident.”
His smirk sharpens. “Wouldn’t even get the sentence out before you’re haunting me.”
“You think I’d haunt you?”
“Without a doubt.” He leans back, arms folding across his chest, pleased with himself. “You’d be the most obnoxious ghost alive—popping up to remind me I didn’t let you order and eat pie for dinner.”