Page 168 of How to Lose at Love

I roll my eyes. “I’m so sure he’s going to love that I’m being flightyagain.”

Kyle still has the spatula in his other hand. “Trust me, Ben Davis isn’t going to care that you fled to the stadium to rendezvous with the hottest guy on campus.”

Davis? “I didn’t know that’s his last name.”

“Can you please focus?” Kyle tosses the spatula into the kitchen, plucks my hat off the hook, and plops it on my head. “There’s no time to waste. They’re at the end of the third quarter. Tick-tock!”

“No time to waste.” Winnie stands behind me, holding my jacket open so I can step into it.

“I feel like Cinderella going to the ball.”

I hold out my arms so Kyle can shove the mittens on my paws.

“This is as close as I’m ever going to get to royalty.” Kyle ushers me closer to the door. “You better start bringing that guy around here more, not just when you’re pissed at him and he comes groveling. Which was super hot, by the way.”

The groveling was super hot, but I wouldn’t really consider him coming to the diner to give his version of the truth groveling.

“Let’s see how this goes, eh?”

“We have faith in you.” Winnie kisses me on the cheek and smacks me on the rear as they push me toward the exit.

I pause.

Turn.

“Hold that thought. How the heck am I getting there?”

They both stare. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t have a car!”

Kyle pulls the apron over his head faster than I’ve ever seen anyone pull an apron over their head, and I’m shocked he isn’t flipping it to the back like a Superman cape.

“Don’t worry—I got you.” He’s grabbing his keys off the hook and his jacket, too.

“Um, Kyle…small problem,” Winnie points out. “You’re our only chef.”

“I’m a line cook with no line, not a chef. And Ben will live, or he can fire me. I’m doing the community a service by taking you to the stadium.”

“Can’t she just borrow your car?” Winnie looks confused about the entire situation that’s unfolding. “Or I can borrow your car to drive her.”

Kyle is already out the door. “No. Hell to the no.”

He is not missing his chance to run into other players; he’s that big a fan.

“I would rather watch this pit go down in flames than miss this chance,” he announces as he bleeps the locks on his car, pointing for me to get my ass inside.

“You’re like a knight in shining armor,” I tell him as I buckle in.

“More like a knight wrapped in tinfoil, but I’ll take it.” He glances over at me and cocks his brow. “Better buckle up. This is going to be one helluva ride.”

He’s not wrong.

All the way to the stadium—which isn’t all that far from ROSCOE + MIMI—Kyle has the pedal to the metal, almost running red lights along the way, both hands gripping the steering wheel as if he were in a race for his life.

I’d rather not lose mine, and besides, there isn’t a ton of traffic, at least not yet.

No cars are going into the stadium, only one or two coming out; the parking lot attendant at the chain link fence dividing the VIP parking lot from the regular parking lot is holding up his little orange traffic light when we approach.

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