Page 89 of The Last Guy On Earth
“Sushi,” I say quickly before my dad can jump on the pizza train.
“Cool. Is it close? I’m starved.”
“Buckle up, kid, I’ll have you there inside of ten minutes.”
“Okay. I guess I can make it. Hey—did you hear when the last day of school is? Grandpa saidMay twenty-third! That’s, like, a whole month earlier than in Detroit!”
It’s actually three weeks earlier. I’d already checked. And I’d already been just as surprised as Toby. “Weird, right? I bet you like Colorado a little better now. They go back earlier in the fall, though. There’s no such thing as a free lunch.”
“Free lunch is totally a thing,” he says. “There were kids at my old school who have free lunch tickets. And I won’t care if they go back earlier if I’m in Detroit, right?”
I hesitate. “Why would you be in Detroit, pal? There’s another year on my contract. You’ll have to pull that scam the following fall.”
The backseat is very quiet, and now my father is looking studiously out the passenger window. I wonder what these two have been discussing.
“But…” Toby finally says. “If you win the Cup, then you might retire, right? Going out on a big note?”
“A high note?” I ask. “Who said that?”
More silence.
I glance toward my father. “Dad, were you speculating about me retiring?”
“Not speculating,” he says. “Just thinking aloud. If your team goes all the way, I thought you might call it quits.”
It’s not a ridiculous idea. But it’s also not a great topic of conversation. “I can’t even think like that right now. Anything could happen.”
“Yeah, I know,” he says. “But I was trying to explain to Toby that just because school gets out in May, we might not go right back to Michigan. Your playoffs season could go deep into June.”
“God willing,” I say, stopping at a light.
“I can’t wait to go home,” Toby says. “It’s going to be awesome.”
“Yeah, buddy,” I say with a sigh. “Just don’t plan next year without me, okay?”
“Okay,” he says sullenly.
It’s only a few more minutes until we reach an upscale commercial street in central Boulder, and I even get lucky with a parking spot. The restaurant is a bright and popular little eatery that gets good reviews online. Through big front windows, I see an attractive mountain mural and maybe twenty busy tables.
“Looks full. I hope there’s no wait,” my father says, because optimism isn’t a Hale family trait.
“Let’s ask before we worry.” I pull open the door. I’m hit by the fresh scent of soy sauce and sesame, and my stomach grumbles.
A slender man with a riot of earrings greets us. “Konnichiwa. Table for three tonight?”
“That’s our hope.”
He looks over his shoulder. “Give me five minutes,” he says, “I’ll get a table ready.”
“Thanks, man. Appreciate it.” I grab a menu off the host’s stand and hand it to my father so he can find something besides raw fish to order.
“Mmm, dumplings,” he says appreciatively.
I scan the tables to check out people’s entrees. And my gaze snags on two men in a booth together. They’re both laughing about something, leaning in the way you would on a date. And I’m a little shocked to realize that one of them is my teammate, DiCosta. And his date? The excellent interior designer he recommended to us back in December.
Casually, I pull my phone out of my pocket and fire off a text to Clay.
Does DiCosta have a boyfriend?
