Page 11 of Save the Game

Sliding into the booth across from him, I grab the salt and pepper. “Mm, you need the calories though. And the protein. I know how closely they monitor you hockey boys.”

“True,” he concedes, picking up his fork. He seems to think about something for a second and then adds: “I’ve been struggling with keeping my weight up this season. Coach mentioned it today, actually.”

“Well, keep eating the food here and we’ll fatten you up in no time.” I try to inject a little levity, if only because Max looks like he needs it. He looks sad; like there is a little raincloud hovering over his head, following him around and raining on his parade. He takes a small bite of egg, chewing slowly and concentrating as though eating is a serious affair.

“How’s your night going?” He asks.

“Fine. It’s slow, so I’ve been going out of my mind with boredom. I don’t do well without direction.” I grin around a mouthful of bacon.

“Do you…work every night?”

“Why? Planning on coming to see me?” I tease, and he rolls his eyes as he butters a piece of toast and puts an egg on it. “But yeah, I work every night that I don’t have a game, usually.”

“You guys have a game tomorrow, don’t you?”

“Yep. And so do you. Are you one of those vampires that stays awake all night and then sleeps during the day?”

He laughs and his hand creeps back up to the back of his neck. “I wish I could sleep during the day. I wish I could sleep at all.”

Frowning, I twirl my fork around in my fingers. Max takes a sip of coffee and looks out the dark window, pretending to find the night interesting. It’s obvious he’s embarrassed about sharing. I want to say something bracing, maybe give him some advice; nothing I can think of sounds sincere, though. It all sounds like empty platitudes. He takes it out of my hands before I can commit.

“So, anyway, Luke…” He trails off, leaving the tail end of the sentence hanging. I pick it up for him.

“Did you do something different with your hair?” He looks at me blankly. I gesture to his head. “I don’t know, it looks flatter tonight.”

“I brushed it,” he says, reaching up to touch the side of his head. I laugh, hastily covering my mouth with my napkin so I don’t spray spit all over his food. He scowls. “We can’t all pull off the artfully messy look like you. If I tried to do my hair like yours, I’d look insane.”

“Hey, don’t knock the fake messy look. Drives all the boys wild.”

“Clearly,” he deadpans.

“So, you brushed your hair before you came here tonight. I feel like I should be flattered. Did you shower? Brush your teeth? How much personal grooming went into this diner visit?”

“I feel like your break is over and it’s time for you to go back to work.”

“Yes. Because there are so many people here, clamoring for my service.” We both turn and look at the empty diner. Max chuckles under his breath. “All right, Maxy. If you could have any super power, what would it be?”

He doesn’t even blink at the random question. “Invisibility,” he answers, so quickly it’s evident he didn’t have to think about it. I raise an eyebrow at him.

“Why?” I’m genuinely curious. I can’t think of a single reason beyond voyeurism to want to be invisible.

“Well, I don’t know,” he says, looking away and putting a hand on the back of his neck again. I wonder if it’s a nervous tick; a tell that shows his tension. “I guess I just don’t like to be the center of attention. I think it would be nice to just…disappear sometimes, you know?”

I frown at him. “You’re going to play hockey in the NHL, in front of thousands of people. You’re going to be the center of attention a lot.”

“Outside of hockey. I don’t know. Sometimes I’d like to hide; if nobody can see you, they can’t see something they’d like to take.”

“What?” I lean across the table toward him and he grimaces, a red flush spreading across his cheekbones. He waves a hand.

“Nothing, never mind. Ignore me. Not enough sleep.” He smiles reassuringly, and wholly unconvincingly. “What about you? What would your super power be? You’ve already got a silver tongue, so it can’t be that.”

I smile, because it’s clear he’s wishing he hadn’t overshared and I don’t want to make him more uncomfortable. I tamp down the urge to press him for more. What the fuck did he mean by that?

“I think super speed. Would be useful for baseball, but also life. I wouldn’t need to drive to work, I could just,” I snap my fingers, “run here in thirty seconds without breaking a sweat.”

“Mm. What about flying?”

“You’re forgetting about baseball. I feel like the league might draw the line at flying.”

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