Page 5 of Save the Game

I keep the Miller family here for as long as I can manage. Leaning a hip against the side of the booth, I crank up the charm and chat them up while they peruse the dessert options. I learn that Mrs. Miller’s sister is here from out of town and that they went to dinner tonight to escape her. I hear all about Mr. Miller’s job as a financial advisor, and little Jacie Miller’s problems with a girl at school. I earn every bit of my twelve-dollar tip, if I do say so myself.

“You folks have a good night,” I call, waving them out the door. “Best of luck with your recital, Jacie!”

Cleaning up their table, I bring the dishes into the back and set about washing them all. Reggie and Wendy are still playing their card game, and I still have no idea what that game is. I stand beside them, watching, for want of anything better to do, after I finish the washing. I’m just pulling my phone out of my pocket to check my Instagram messages when the bell over the front door tinkles.

“Yes!” I punch the air, and damn near run out of the kitchen. I’m going to die of boredom tonight, I swear to fucking god.

There’s a man standing just inside the door. A very, very attractive man. He’s tall, with unruly coppery-brown hair and cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass. His arms are well-muscled, from what I can see, although the rest of him is hidden beneath a ridiculously oversized shirt. It looks like he’s just lost a hundred pounds and hasn’t yet purchased a new wardrobe.

“Hello,” I say, giving him a welcoming smile. The evening is most definitely looking up. “Have a seat, I’ll be right with you.”

Boy will I. He nods and looks around the room, as though he’s trying to pick the best of the empty tables. He walks to the one farthest away from the door, and looks back at me, uncertainly.

“Can I sit here?” He asks.

“Anywhere you please.” He slides into the seat facing the door and puts a book down on the table. I hadn’t even realized he was carrying one. I grab a plastic cup and fill it with water. Setting it down in front of him, I get a good look at his face and realize that I know who he is: Max Kuemper. I also notice that he has the lightest brown eyes I’ve ever seen: gold rather than shit colored, like mine. “Do you want me to give you a minute to look at the menu? Or perhaps you’d like a suggestion?”

He looks up at me, fingers resting on top of his book. “Just a coffee, please.”

I raise an eyebrow. “At eleven o’clock at night? Do you want decaf?”

“Sure,” he says, “decaf is fine.”

“Anything to eat?”

“No, thank you.”

I push away from his table and go to brew him a pot of coffee. I pour out the one that was sitting there burning and start over; no way am I serving somebody that cute this old coffee. Watching him while the coffee percolates, I wonder what SCU’s Golden Boy is doing at a 24-hour diner this late on a school night. He’s obviously alone, and the presence of the book indicates he’s probably not meeting someone. My skin itches with curiosity.

After I bring his decaf over to him, I head back into the kitchen. Reggie looks up from his cards. This must be the slowest card game in the history of card games.

“Anything from the grill?” He asks.

“Nope. Mind if I take a break?”

“Sure, kiddo,” he says, waving me away. “Grab something to eat.”

I dish myself up two slices of cherry pie, grab two forks, and walk over to where Max Kuemper has his nose in his book. He’s leaned on one elbow, cheek resting against his palm.

“Hello,” I say, and his body goes completely still for a moment before he looks up at me. He glances over his shoulder, as though wondering if I’m speaking to someone behind him. I grin. “Hello, you.”

“Hi.”

I sit down across from him. “How ya doing?”

He stares at me. I wait, patiently. Before he speaks, he deliberately puts a bookmark into his book and closes the cover. “Fine, how are you?”

“Good! What are you reading?”

“Uhm, aren’t you supposed to be working?” He asks, lowering his voice and looking around at the empty diner.

“I’m on my break. Want some pie?” I push the plate toward him and hold out a fork. Again, he stares at it for a ridiculous amount of time before he takes it. “I’m Luke, by the way.”

“Yes, I know,” he says, and I raise my eyebrows. “My friend plays for the baseball team. Marcos.”

“No way, you’re friends with Marcos the Grouch?” I reply, delighted.

“He’s not a grouch,” he tells me, loyally. I raise my eyebrows a little higher and take a bite of pie. “Well, okay, yes, he can be somewhat grouchy.”

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