Page 435 of Face Off

“It has lake views, professional hockey, restaurants that understand seasoning, and winters brutal enough to justify seventeen coats.”

“You’re abusing proprietary sales material.”

“I’m helping.”

“You’re interfering.”

“With your friend?”

His expression becomes suspiciously blank. “Yes.”

“The one who has messaged you twice during our premium friendship orientation?”

“She is considerate.”

“Does she know about the sweatshirt residency plan?”

“She understands that I’m complex.”

“I’m sure she does.”

Briggs points his food at me. “If you tell Ryan anything, I will explain attachment theory during foreplay.”

“You wouldn’t be present during our foreplay.”

“I live six doors away. Acoustically, that remains uncertain.”

I nearly choke on my drink.

His laughter fills the kitchen while I throw a napkin at his head.

The next few hours disappear beneath food, insults, and the strangest sense of ease I have experienced in months. Briggs shows me photographs from camp, including several Ryan refused to send because he believed his hair looked wrong. I show him pictures of Encanto’s holiday collection and explain why putting shoulder pads inside one dress required engineering he doesn’t respect until I compare it to goalie equipment.

We take a photograph in front of the windows with Milwaukee behind us. Briggs rejects the first because he claims humility isn’t his brand. In the second, I hold my coffee while he points toward the bus stop where Marco has resumed arguing with the parking meter. By the fourth, both of us are laughing too hard to remain still.

“We’re sending this to Ryan,” I say.

“No. He’ll know I spent all day inside his apartment eating his food and becoming best friends with his woman.”

“I’m not technically his woman.”

Briggs gives me the same look the woman downstairs used. “You drove four hundred miles.”

“You’re all aggressively literal here.”

“It’s another Milwaukee benefit.”

His phone pings.

Briggs glances at the screen, and his entire body jerks upright. “Oh, fuck.”

My heart slams hard enough to hurt. “What?”

“He’s in the parking garage.”

I place my coffee on the table before my shaking hand drops it. “He’s here?”

“He is angry about traffic, has consumed enough caffeine to see through time, and wants to know why I’m still inside his apartment.”