Page 37 of Puck, Marry, Kill

“No reason. Thanks, Dominic.”

Chapter 13

Dominic

I’m not surprised. Well, not about who didn’t show up to my open invitation for a pre–opening game dinner at Big Boy Bowls. But maybe about who did—Mike Kipson.

He looks from me to Rodney to Tomville and then to the door behind him. He’s thinking of bailing. It’s written in every tense muscle, his downturned mouth, and the way he’s fidgeting with the car keys that are still in his hand.

Thankfully, that’s the moment Pacholek opens the door behind him, boxing him in. “Hey, fellas! We eating or not?”

“You guys know what to do,” I tell Rodney and Tomville. They instantly queue up to order, remembering the advice I gave them last time.

“You want your usual?” Rodney calls back to me and I nod.

Kipson looks at me questioningly.

“We went out to eat during training camp. Figured we were all new in town and might as well get to know each other.”

His brow furrows as he stares at me. “You just invited them out?” I nod. “And invited everyone out tonight?”

“You’re buying your own,” I clarify with a shit-eating grin. “This ain’t a date and I’m no gentleman.”

“Fuck off,” he growls. But as he pushes past me to get in line, he’s fighting a teeny-tiny hint of a smile. He’d disagree, but I see it ... right there at the corners of his mouth. They’re approximately 3 percent less frowny than they were when he came in.

“You like playing with fire?” Pacholek asks wonderingly, watching the interaction between me and Kipson.

“Only thing I like better is playing with my dick,” I joke. More seriously, I tell him, “Glad you came, man,” as I clap him on the back and let him go in front of me in line.

We get our food and find a table, no small feat for five large-framed athletes. And we dig in. I even steal a bite of Pacholek’s carnitas, grinning at him when he tries to stab my hand, but he snaps the tines on his plastic fork before breaking my skin.

“I ... am ... Iron Man,” I taunt before doing the classic guitar riff.

Pacholek rolls his eyes. “I literally got you, it’s just a weak-ass fork,” he complains, staring at the new gap in the utensil.

“I gotchu.” I hop up, grab him a new one, and make a quick stop at the register to ask for a side of the carnitas for the table. As I sit back down, I groan, “That shit’s delicious.”

“Yeah, I know. That’s why I got it,” Pacholek quips.

He quits complaining when a worker drops off a bowl with a big scoop of guacamole along with the pork, definitely more than a side, on our table. “Truce?”

“Fucker.”

But all is forgiven when the rest of the guys try it. It even turns into a taste test competition—chicken versus carnitas versus steak. Personally, I think they’re all winners.

Even as we all goof off, Kipson stays mostly quiet, watching it all play out in front of him like we’re a show he’s tuned in to but not a part of. But eventually, narrowed eyes locked on me, he spits out, “What are you doing?”

Shoveling another bite—of my own chicken this time—into my mouth, I ask, “What?”

He tilts his head, glare going even colder. “Don’t act innocent. What game are you playing?”

Okay, we’re doing this, I guess.

I set my fork down, wipe my mouth with a napkin, and turn off my Good-Natured Guy persona in favor of coldly glaring right back. “Eating dinner with my teammates before a game.” He’s not buying it. Not that I’m doing much to sell the idea that this is a no-big-deal meal out between friends. “Tell me, what do you usually do the night before a game, especially the season opener? Where do you think the rest of the team is tonight? What are they doing?”

“Not singing ‘Kumbaya’ with assholes they barely know,” he answers.

Rodney sits back in his chair, hurt. Tomville takes a too-big bite, angry. Pacholek sighs.