Page 11 of Puck Me Daddy

"Plus, I had this instinct that you might be a milkshake fan," he added, his eyes twinkling with amusement. I stumbled slightly, his hand tightening around mine to steady me.

Well, he was right. I was just about the biggest shake fiend you could imagine. I’d had a lot of shakes in a lot of spots around town, but never Patty’s Place.

“I have been known to enjoy the occasional milkshake. From time to time.”

“Perfect.” He gave me a warm smile that made my stomach do backflips.

The diner was a blur of red vinyl and shiny chrome. We slid into a booth, the seat squeaking beneath me. Everything felt normal, almost surreal after the charged atmosphere of thearena. The faint hum of the fryer, the clink of cutlery, the low murmur of conversation—it all anchored me, even as my heart continued to race.

Demian ordered for both of us, rattling off pancakes and a vanilla shake for me and a burger for himself. Then, without missing a beat, he added, "Extra sprinkles on the pancakes, please." I blinked, my mouth opening slightly in amusement. He couldn't possibly know, could he? My love for pancakes, my silly obsession with sprinkles . . . it was all too much.

He looked at me, his eyes holding that same intensity from before, but now there was a softness too. A playfulness.

“How did you know I’d want extra sprinkles?”

“Who doesn’t want extra sprinkles?”

I laughed.

Demian leaned back, his eyes never leaving mine. The air between us crackled, the tension palpable. I could feel the weight of his gaze, the promise in his eyes.

“Sorry,” I said, “this is so weird. I can’t really believe I’m here with you.”

“Me too,” he said. “I can’t remember the last time I let someone new into my life. It’s actually pretty nerve-wracking.”

“You don’t get nervous.”

“I do. Before every single game.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“It’s true. If I didn’t get nervous it would mean I’d stopped caring. I bet you were nervous about our interview.”

“Of course.”

“Me too. But this, right now, is the most nervous I’ve been for years.”

Just then, the waitress slid a towering burger in front of him and a milkshake topped with whipped cream and sprinkles in front of me.

“So,” he said. “No handlers tonight.”

“That means I can ask you whatever I want.”

“Right. But, uh, before that, I’d like to interview you," he said, his voice low and steady, yet commanding. My breath caught, a hitch that felt like a tiny gasp for air. The power dynamic shifted palpably, sending a thrill down my spine. I nodded, a small gesture of surrender, letting him take the reins.

“Me? I’m not interesting enough to interview.”

“I disagree.”

“I bet you can’t ask a single question which would give a juicy reply.”

Demian leaned in, his forearms pressing against the sticky table surface. His muscles flexed slightly, a subtle display of strength that made my heart race. His gaze was intense, piercing, like he was looking straight through me. "Tilly," he began, his tone soft yet firm, "are you a Little?"

Chapter 4

Holy fricking hell.

Well, I’d been wrong. Demian managed to find an interesting question to ask me, after all.

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