Page 46 of Cross Check Daddies
I nod once. “You’d rather come up to mine for a bit?”
Her head tilts, lashes lifting just enough for her eyes to meet mine. “Why are you being nice to me?”
I lean my elbow against the steering wheel, watching her face, the little twist at the corner of her mouth, the effort it takes her to ask that, like she doesn’t already know the answer. “Truth? I’m not sure,” I say. “But I don’t feel like letting you eat cold fries alone.”
She stares at me for another beat, then opens the door. That’s answer enough.
The elevator hums on the way up. She pulls a wipe from her bag and cleans her face like she’s scrubbing off the day. The lipstick comes off in one swipe. The liner too. She presses her lips together, and I glance away, watching the numbers tick higher.
Inside the loft, the door swings open to soft lighting and clean lines. The space is warm. Leather, polished concrete, muted navy accents, and tall windows that frame the skyline like it was hung there for show.
The walls are a mix of vintage hockey memorabilia, a mounted pair of old skates, and black-and-white photos from my playing days. A wide sectional wraps around a low table. The kitchen’s open, industrial, stainless steel with matte cabinets. Nothing fancy.
She steps inside and pauses by the sitting area up the short staircase, eyes sweeping the space. “You have quite the setup,” she calls, dropping her bag near the edge of the couch.
I take the food bag from her hand. “I’ll throw these in the oven. Won’t take long.”
From the kitchen, I watch her settle, pulling her legs up beside her, eyes still darting around the room like she’s trying to read me through my furniture.
“You want a beer?”
She nods. “Yeah. Thanks.”
I hand her one, crack mine open, and lean on the kitchen island as I sip. She takes a drink, wipes condensation from her palm against her jeans, then looks at me over the bottle.
“You play games?” she asks.
“Yeah. Nothing pro or weird. Just to unwind.”
Her mouth quirks. “That’s funny.”
“What?”
She shifts her legs, curling tighter into the couch. “You, being nice. Today was shit. And now I’m sitting in your apartment, drinking your beer, and I just didn’t expect to find out we had anything in common.”
“You calling me old, Brooke?”
She laughs, and it’s real this time, sharp around the edges but clean. She grabs the remote off the coffee table. “No, Coach. Just... surprised.”
She flicks through the game menu. “Let’s see what kind of Super Mario games you’ve got loaded.”
But when she clicks into my library, the screen floods with something else entirely.
Call of Duty. Most recent version. Loaded. Waiting.
She blinks. “No way.”
I arch a brow. “What?”
“I play this all the time.”
I raise my beer again. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” she says, leaning forward like she’s forgotten she was miserable a few minutes ago. “And whoever designed the A.I. for the bots needs a refresher on basic aggression hierarchy. Like, the spawn points are total garbage in multiplayer unless you reroute based on team ratio, and don’t even get me started on the weapon customization limits—they broke the sniper balance just to favor SMGs, and that’s lazy as hell.”
She’s animated now, eyes sharp, mouth moving fast. Her hands gesture like she’s sketching the code in midair. I leanagainst the back of the couch and just watch as her voice fills the space.
“You want to play?” I ask when she pauses for breath. “I’ve got an extra controller.”
