Chapter One Boyfriend #2
“I think the kid deserves no better than a B-. But I’ll leave it up to you. Should we let him pass?”
“Sure,” I say, not wanting to make a fuss. “I’ve heard far worse, to be honest." And I wish I could say it was rare.
"That is unfortunate,” he says softly. “But not tonight, okay? It’s my job to train up the rookies—for the good of Moo U, and for the good of hockey. It’s my sacred, noble mission.”
“Sure it is.” His buddy Tate elbows him. “Last night you said that convincing me to order the Thai wings was your sacred, noble mission.”
Weston shrugs. “A guy can have two sacred, noble missions.”
“Especially on his birthday,” I add. “Cheers, boys. Drink up, because it’s last call.” We close at ten on weeknights.
Then I leave them to it. I need to do some side work so I can leave as soon as they’re through.
By the time I deliver the sorority girls’ food, the candles on the tables are burning low in their votive cups. This is my favorite time of night at The Biscuit in the Basket. It’s peaceful, as the murmur of quiet conversation replaces the dull roar we hear throughout the dinner rush.
The Biscuit has a cozy, old-time feel, like it’s been here forever. The walls are paneled in dark brown wood, but most of the space has been given over to group photos of Moo U sports teams from every consecutive year since the turn of the last century.
I love to stop for a glance at the oldest photos, with the baseball players in their baggy, pinstriped knickers. And the hockey players with their 1960s haircuts. The women’s team photos start up a bit later, in the eighties. There’s basketball and cross country too.
One thing you won’t find on these walls, though, is a photo of a football team. Moo U doesn’t have one. We’re a D1 hockey school, and we do well in lacrosse and baseball, as well as winter sports like skiing and ski jumping. But football just isn’t very Vermonty. So we don’t bother.
To finish up the night’s work, I take a seat at an empty table and roll silverware for tomorrow’s shift. And I just happen to pick a table that’s within earshot of table seventeen. Eavesdropping is good service, right? I’m easy to find if they need anything.
Plus, it’s entertaining. The hockey players are making celebratory toasts. “To winning the league this year!” one of the twins says.
“The league ?” Weston yelps. “Why not the national championship? Aim high, Patrick.”
“To Professor Reynolds for postponing the Rocks for Jocks test!”
“Wait, really? It was postponed?”
“To cold beer and warm women!”
That was the obnoxious freshman again. Weston ignores him this time.
“To Weston!” Tate cheers. “Another trip around the sun!”
“Aw, shucks, guys. You’re all buying me dinner, right?” He sets down his beer. “Speaking of dinner, I almost forgot about my flyers.” He pulls his backpack off the floor and unzips it. He pulls out a folder from the copy shop and flips it open. “It’s time to hang up my sign.”
Tate looks over his shoulder and laughs. “No way . You’re doing that again? Why?”
“Because I love Thanksgiving. It’s my favorite holiday.”
“You could come out to our farm, you know,” Tate argues. “You have a standing invitation.”
“That is a tempting offer, especially because your grandma makes that apple pecan tart with the crinkly edges.” Weston makes a motion with his fingers, as if crinkling imaginary dough. “And the crumble topping is spectacular.”
It’s so cute I find myself smiling into the silverware bin.
“So what’s the problem, then?” Tate demands. “And if you pick on my grandma’s cooking, I will hurt you.”
“Your grandmother’s cooking is awesome. My problem is with your father’s football picks. I can’t root for the Patriots, man. Besides, this way I’m providing a public service.”
“What service?” Someone snatches a flyer out of the folder and reads it aloud.
“Rent a boyfriend for the holiday. For $25, I will be your Thanksgiving date. I will talk hockey with your dad. I will bring your mother flowers. I will be polite, and wear a nicely ironed shirt. Note: I don’t cook, so I am not able to bring a dish.
I'm from out of town, and have no plans for the holiday. But I love Thanksgiving, and would be happy to celebrate with you. Especially if your mother is a good cook. Or your father. I’m not sexist . ”
There’s a smattering of laughter and sarcastic applause.
“You’re charging money?” one of the freshmen squeaks.
“It’s a nominal fee,” Weston says with a shrug.
“But it makes you sound desperate,” the youngster says.
“Nah, it makes me sound like I value my own time and company. And I always get multiple offers. The fee keeps the nutters away. Only women who really need my help will apply.”
Someone asks: “What if it’s a dude who calls?" And the whole table snickers.
I’m surprised when Weston just shrugs. "That would be fine I guess. Fake love is fake love.”
Twelve hockey players howl with laughter.
And I am captivated. There’s nothing on Netflix that’s half as interesting as Weston Griggs hiring himself out on Thanksgiving. Boyfriend for Rent .
I wonder if there’s a rent-to-own option?
“Weston, is this even legal?” one of the twins asks. "Coach will be pretty pissed if you’re busted for solicitation.”
“Does the team have a bail fund?” his brother asks. And then they high-five each other.
“Don’t twist my good deed into something tawdry.
” Weston lifts his perfect, masculine jaw and gives the twins a glare.
“My intentions are pure. Last Thanksgiving I had a lovely meal with a sophomore nursing student in Winooski. She’d recently broken up with her high school boyfriend, and her parents were upset about the breakup.
God knows why. So I went along and they didn’t mention him once the whole day. ”
“Huh,” Tate says. “So I guess she got her twenty-five bucks’ worth in peace of mind.”
“Exactly. And I enjoyed a lovely turkey—cooked sous vide style, so it was extra moist and juicy. Then her mother rubbed the skin with butter and crisped it up under the broiler. And there was a sausage stuffing with water chestnuts so good I almost cried.”
“Water chestnuts?” Tate shudders. “That’s just wrong.”
“No, it’s glorious.” Weston puts down his beer glass. “And now I’m hungry again. We’ve got to stop talking about Thanksgiving. It’s a whole week away.”
“You started it,” Tate says with a chuckle. “And the Pats are totally going to win this year.”
“Bullshit,” Weston mutters. “Maybe I should come over just so I can watch your dad cry.”
“Bet you a four-pack of Goldenpour they win,” Tate challenges.
“Deal. We’ll settle up after the holiday.”
Then Weston gets up and hangs his flyer on the bulletin board right by the door.
* * *
They depart forty minutes later, leaving behind a tip of fifty-five bucks. Totally worth it! I yawn my way through the rest of my side work until it’s time to race home to burn the midnight oil for my test.
But before I leave the Biscuit for the night, I stop in front of the bulletin board.
If I hadn’t overheard that conversation tonight, I wouldn’t have looked twice at this sign.
Weston didn’t put his name on it. There’s nothing there to advertise the fact that whoever hires Weston on Thanksgiving is getting a date with the hunkiest man on the hockey team.
I reach out and tear one of the phone numbers off the bottom corner. And then I tuck it into my pocket on my way out the door…
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