Page 13 of Must Love Hockey
“Who wants to grab dinner?” Silas asks his teammates.
“Your girl is out of town?” Castro guesses.
“Of course his girl is out of town,” Crikey says. “Any guy willing to dine with me the night before a road trip is single or temporarily single.”
“Maybe I just like your scruffy face,” Silas says, giving him a cheesy wink. “Do you put out on the first date?”
“Only if you buy me dinner first. What are we eating?”
“I’m in the mood for pizza,” Silas says.
And that’s when I start to panic. I’m meeting Emily at Grimaldi’s in forty minutes. And I donotneed the entire hockey team tagging along.
“Pizza sounds good,” Crikey agrees. “Who else is coming?”
Bayer, Drake, and Tankiewicz all raise their hands.
“I’m in,” Castro says. “Heidi is having dinner with her father tonight.”
“He still hates you?” I hear myself ask. Heidi Jo’s dad is the league commissioner, and he did not want his baby girl to date a hockey player.
“He’s over it. You coming out for pizza, Jimbo?”
“Um…” I have to think fast. “Did you guys see there’s a new noodle shop on Court?
“Any good?” Castro asks.
“I haven’t tried it, but the menu looks great.”
“But it’s my turn to pick,” Silas argues. “And I want pizza.”
“Weren't you at Grimaldi's, like, two nights ago?” I try.
“What, like that's weird?” Silas scoffs. “Why the sudden hostility toward the best pizza in Brooklyn?”
“No reason,” I mumble. But I sure hope they end up going somewhere else.
* * *
No such luck. When I walk through Grimaldi’s door a half hour later, I spot six hockey players together at a big table. I almost manage to sneak past them, but the waitress—Nancy Elizabeth—looks up and smiles. “Jimbo! Should I grab another chair?”
“Uh, nope. A friend asked me to meet her here.”
“Afriend.” Castro’s eyes light up. “What kind of friend? Are you on a date, Jimbo?”
“No way,” I say quickly. Not that I don’t wish I was. “Like I said, afriend.”
“But you combed your hair.” Silas is grinning now.
“People do that,” I grumble.
“Guys, who thinks Jimbo’s hair looks extra good tonight?” Castro asks.
Six hockey players raise their hands.
“Later guys,” I say, hurrying away from their table.
I swear someone says, “Oh, this could be fun,” as I walk away.
