Page 91 of We Can't Be Friends

“Nah-uh. I am.” Riley points to himself.

“No way,” she plays back. “Cal might even yell louder than the both of us.” Chloe easily brings me into the conversation.

Big eyes and a bigger smile land on me. “Even though you’ve never been to a game before?” he asks me excitedly.

“I was hoping you could teach me. Tell me when.”

“Duh. Okay, popcorn now, then seats!” Riley drops Chloe’s hand and grabs hold of the jersey I’m wearing, the one Chloe tossed in my room earlier to wear. “Come on, Cal!”

***

“Iget to sit behind the glass because my dad is on the team,” Riley tells me for the third time as we make our way down the concrete steps.

“Don’t slip,” Chloe says over my shoulder to him. “Pay attention, or you are going to drop your drink.”

At the concessions stand, Riley stood on his toes, grasping the metal counter, and ordered the popcorn he wanted. Then, I ordered nachos, two kinds of candy, a hot dog, and Diet Coke. When the cashier asked if we wanted anything else, Chloe whispered in my ear that we shouldn’t get anything. He will take two bites and then move on to something else.

He’s carrying the soda. The tray of nachos, a fully loaded hot dog, and the candy are in my hands. Behind me, Chloe is holding an XL tub of popcorn.

That she is tossing at my head. A kernel falls down the back of the jersey.

“Yes?” I ask over my shoulder at her.

“Henry looks good on you, Pretty Boy,” she says with a wink.

Oh, yeah, I’m wearing her name on my back.

***

We attended Miller’s games for the remainder of their home game stretch. Riley was adamant that he only wanted to attend the games if I was there. His toothy smile and gray puppy dog eyes are hard to say no to.

Over the five games, I’ve learned a lot about hockey. Between the two, there is enough knowledge to fill an encyclopedia. You can tell that Chloe grew up around the ice.

There were moments I’d glance at her over Riley’s head, catching her profile. She’d take a quick breath and bite her bottom lip, eyes going soft with a sense of. . . longing.

Then the puck would drop, as would her demeanor. On the edge of her seat, yelling at the refs and clutching Riley’s hand in hers anytime Miller had the puck.

Since then, we haven’t seen each other much. Our schedules have been opposite. Chloe has had evening events, and I’ve had early morning meetings with our London team.

“You hate Chicago.”

The bite to her assumption has my head jerking back, halting the bite of bacon I was about to take. We’re enjoying breakfast together. On weekdays, it’s an unofficial race between us to see who is out the door first, but we’re both home on the weekends.

Chloe doesn’t cook, so I make us breakfast. Saturdays are pancakes with bananas and chocolate chips—which I’ve come to enjoy quite a lot. Sundays are eggs and bacon.

If I’m up before her, I’ll walk Tucker and make her coffee while my tea is steeping.

Sometimes we talk, sometimes we don’t.

It’s nice.

Especially this weekend after not seeing her for a week.

I don’t know what she did before she lived here on the weekends—I try not to think about her life before us—but from the tidbits I have gotten from her, it wasn’t this. More chaotic, messy.

So it’s nice that she’s settled into a small routine with me.

But this morning, I guess Chloe is choosing violence.

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