Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 79564 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 398(@200wpm)___ 318(@250wpm)___ 265(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79564 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 398(@200wpm)___ 318(@250wpm)___ 265(@300wpm)
Atlas and I grabbed a table near the window, the view giving us a glimpse of people bundled up against the Pittsburgh winter. We shed our coats and ignored the menus, both knowing what we want to eat. We come here enough that the waitress knew too and merely asked, “The usual?”
After a solid post-flu workout, my muscles ache in the best way, and my appetite has finally made a roaring comeback. A turkey club sandwich piled high with crisp lettuce, ripe tomato and thick bacon sits before me, accompanied by a creamy protein shake and a side of fresh fruit. Across from me, Atlas demolishes a double cheeseburger like it’s a personal vendetta.
“Thought you were on some kind of nutrition plan,” I tease, nodding at the grease dripping from his burger onto the wax paper wrapper.
He grins around a mouthful, completely unapologetic. “Cheat day. Besides, you’re one to talk.” He gestures with a fry toward my plate. “That thing’s packed with bacon. Hypocrite.”
I laugh, picking up my sandwich. “Fair enough, but bacon doesn’t count as cheating. It’s basically its own food group.”
Atlas snorts, shaking his head as he reaches for his drink. “You keep telling yourself that.”
Our waitress, Amy, stops by to check on us. She’s pretty and I usually flirt with her. “Everything okay over here? Need anything else?” she asks, her eyes lingering on me and perhaps waiting on some playful banter.
“I’m good,” I reply, stabbing a strawberry with my fork. “Thanks.”
She frowns and glances at Atlas who gives her an easy grin. “I think we’re all set.”
“All right,” she says hesitantly, tucking her pen behind her ear. “Just holler if you need anything.”
As Amy moves to the next table, Atlas glances at me, his eyes crinkled with mischief. “You just totally ruined her day.”
I roll my eyes, taking a bite of my sandwich. “You’re delusional. She’s just doing her job.”
“Yeah, but you’re not. It’s your job to flirt with her every time we come in and you didn’t, and now she’s probably having an existential crisis.”
I snort, reaching for my protein shake. “I highly doubt that.”
I catch movement out of the corner of my eye as I take a sip through the straw. A boy, maybe ten or eleven, approaches hesitantly with his dad a few feet away. The kid’s wearing a Titans hat, his cheeks flushed like he’s been working up the courage to come over.
Atlas notices too and chuckles. “Incoming.”
I wave them over as I wipe my mouth, and the boy beams, pulling his dad along.
“Hey, buddy,” I say, angling in my chair to face him. “You have the distinctive look of a hockey fan.”
The boy nods vigorously. “Yeah! I watch every Titans game with my dad. You’re North Paquette, right?”
“That’s me.”
“Cool!” His voice cracks with excitement, and I can’t help but grin. “You’re my favorite player.”
“Appreciate that,” I say, glancing at his dad, who looks just as excited. “You get to any games?”
“Partial season ticket holders,” the dad says with a proud smile. “The Titans are going to go all the way this year.”
“I definitely think we’re on that path,” I agree, not willing to say more for fear of jinxing us.
“Want a picture?” Atlas offers, wiping his hands on a napkin and gesturing to me and the boy.
“Can we?” the dad asks, pulling out his phone and handing it to Atlas.
The boy tilts his head to look at his dad. “Can Atlas get in the photo with us?”
“Ha!” Atlas exclaims with a wide smile. “I thought you’d never ask. Hold on just a second.”
He turns and grabs Amy at the next table, tapping her on the shoulder. “Do you mind snapping a photo for us?”
“Sure thing,” she chirps brightly.
We all line up, dad and the boy in the center, flanked by me and Atlas. Amy snaps photos and then orders dad out of the photo who gladly obliges. Atlas and I bend down so we’re on the same level as the kid, who beams as he vibrates with excitement.
“Keep cheering us on, all right?” I say as Amy hands the phone back to the father and moves off to another table.
“Always!” the boy exclaims. “Thanks, Mr. Paquette!”
When they’re gone, we sit back down. Atlas smirks at me across the table. “Mr. Paquette. You’re old, man.”
“Old and still faster than you on the ice,” I shoot back, reclaiming my sandwich.
“Debatable,” he says, biting into his burger again.
We fall into a comfortable silence, the sound of silverware clinking and low chatter filling the space around us. Outside, a group of kids runs by, their laughter carrying through the glass. It’s one of those rare moments where everything feels right—until Atlas decides to stir the pot.
“So, you and Farren.” He looks at me expectantly.
I glance up, already anticipating his smug expression. “What about us?”
“You tell me.”