Page 37 of My Pucking Perfect Goalie

When we duck into the restaurant and I smell the thick scent of garlic and tomato in the air, I know it was the right choice to let Sammy pick.

“My favorite pizza place,” he says. “Brett introduced me to it. Byte-Sized.”

The building we’re standing in looks more like an arcade than a pizza place, but my mouth is already watering at the scents floating through the air. It’s more than just Italian seasonings and mozzarella, though—there are other strange notes. The sharp tang of pickles. Sweet caramel apple. Seafood.

“Come on,” Sammy says, and when his hand lands on the small of my back, I ignore the pulse of heat that spawns at his touch. He grabs two menus as he leads me to a table in the back, sliding one in front of me as we settle into the booth.

“Super Meatball Galaxy?” I ask, laughing as I scan the menu. At the very, very bottom, there’s a section called IF YOU’RE BORING that has selections like pepperoni and supreme, but everything else on the menu is…interesting.

“Oh, that one’s good,” Sammy says, smiling when he looks up at me. “But unlike what you’d assume, it’s not Italian meatballs. It’s Swedish meatballs. So it’s like, lingonberry sauce, onions,mushrooms, Swiss cheese, fried onions. Plus it has this sick drizzle that’s kind of like the gravy you get with those meatballs. You know—like Ikea?” I bite my lip, and Sammy lets out a laugh. “You’ve never been to Ikea?”

“Sammy,” I say, raising an eyebrow at him. “Do I look like I’d purchase my furniture atIkea?”

“Well, I don’t buy furniture there, either. It’s about the experience.”

“If you say so.”

It’s too easy, talking to him. And it’s intoxicating, the rush of pleasure I get every time I make him laugh.

“Final Phan-Thai-sy,” I read, noticing how the description for each pizza is a whole paragraph long, and laden with what I must assume are references to these games. “Red Dead Mac-demption.”

This isnothinglike the pizza Penny and I would occasionally treat ourselves to in California. Cauliflower crust. Whole basil leaves, tasteful dollops of mozzarella. Fancy and brushed with oregano-infused olive oil.

“The Pickle Lovers’ Paradise is good.” Sammy reaches over to point it out for me. “If you love pickles.”

“I have no strong opinion on pickles,” I say, eyes drifting, “but Idolove sushi.”

“Okay, I’ll order for us.”

Sammy grabs the menus and deposits them in the rack, then heads to the front of the building, placing his order at the counter. I watch him as he goes, how he waves to one table and approaches the counter with an air of confidence I wish I could translate to the ice. Even after such a horrific performance tonight, get a man in front of a whole pizza, and he brightens up.

When he returns, it’s with two bottles of water, a craft soda, fancy iced tea in a glass bottle, and a sparkling water.

“Are you that thirsty?” I ask.

“I didn’t know what you wanted,” he says, sheepishly unloading his beverage haul onto the table. “And I wasn’t sure if you’d put any of these off-limits for me.”

“Sammy,” I say, laughing, “your highly-detailed nutrition plan doesn’t includePickle Lovers’ Paradise.We’re already here, what makes you think I’m going to keep you from drinking an iced tea?”

Though, now that I’m looking at them, I’m already thinking about the caffeine in the tea and also potentially in the soda. He slides them over to me and I read through the ingredients carefully, deeming the craft soda not perfect—plenty of sugar,which can be inflammatory—but at least without the caffeine that’s in the tea. I crack open the sparkling water for myself.

“See?” Sammy asks, as he takes a sip. “I knew you’d have an opinion.”

“How’s that?”

“You have an opinion on everything,” he says, setting his soda down and shrugging out of his hoodie. I have to avert my eyes, knowing his t-shirt will ride up, and knowing it will only make it worse to have to see even a sliver of what’s underneath

I’ve seen him shirtless before. It doesn’t matter.

“I think that comes along with justknowingeverything,” he continues. “That’s what makes you trustworthy.”

I let the compliment wash over me, my fingers tightening on my drink. Of course, I’d been on dates in California. Back when I still thought I might settle down with a man and make a family the old-fashioned way, I’d forced myself to go out once a week to a nice dinner. Tech investors, lawyers, even one physician. The problem with each and every one of them was that they expected me to be endlessly interested in them. They loved when I asked them questions, but never got around to returning the gesture.

It feels nothing like that with Sammy. Even as it’s my professional duty to know everything about him, and he has no stake in knowing me, he keeps peeling back my layers. Asking me questions.

On the surface, it’s terrifying. Beneath, it feels like exactly what I’ve been waiting for. Maybe that’s part of the reason being around him is so dangerous for me. I like Sammy, genuinely, as a person…and my body is picking up on those cues.

He reaches across the table for a napkin to set under his soda and I watch his bicep flex, newly freed from his hoodie and straining against the sleeve of his t-shirt. I could reach out and touch that swell of muscle, feel his warm skin. When he straightens up again, and our eyes meet, it’s like there’s something in my throat.

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