Page 10 of Cherry Picking
“Have you talked to the guys? A lot of us rent out apartments in a building near the rink. Maybe there’s a vacancy.”
“Yeah? Maybe I’ll talk to Hawks about it.”
It grows quiet, and I’m not too sure why Riley is following me anymore. It isn’t like I invited him back to the shop, but if we happen to be walking in the same direction… and if he happens to stop in and hang out… who am I to complain?
“Evan would be good for you.”
I nearly stumble over my sneakers at a crack in the sidewalk when he suddenly speaks up. “Huh?”
“A good friend, I mean. Hawks is a strong ally. Goes to the Pride parades every year, is very vocal about injustices in the league where queer people are concerned. You’d get along well.”
It’s a little sudden and odd, but I nod anyway. “He seems cool. I definitely don’t want to shack up with my captain if it comes down to it, though.”
Locke is leaning against the fender of the Firebird when we make it back to the bay, and his brows shoot up when he notices I’ve brought a companion.
“Found a stray,” I say, pointing to Riley, who scrunches his shoulders up a bit and smiles.
“Riley Easton,” he says, offering his hand.
Locke—who is covered head to toe in oil and dust—doesn’t hesitate to take it. “Locke Madden.”
I pass over Locke’s sandwich, and he holds it under his arm as he twists his nearly elbow-length hair into a bun and snatches my hat to toss it over top.
“At this point, you should just cut it, man.”
“I’ll cut my hair when you cut your dick.”
I don’t miss the way Riley’s curious gaze does a quick sweep across my body and lingers on the crotch of my jeans.
“My friend is a very classy mechanic.”
Locke gives me the finger and digs into his sandwich. “His friend is the reason he’s not out on his ass right now.”
I don’t shove him because I don’t want him to choke, and I turn to find Riley watching us with a quiet contemplation.
“Cat got your tongue, Easton?”
He blinks, shakes his head, and offers up a smile. “It’s one of those days. Tired. A little out of it.”
Even if he brushes it off, I don’t like the exhaustion settling in at the slight crinkle around his eyes. Riley isn’t old—getting up there for the PHL, sure—but he doesn’t look as energetic as a man just pushing thirty should.
I find myself chewing on the pad of my thumb as I look him over. The boot is off, but he’s still favoring his left leg. His posture is tense.
“You know what?” Locke cuts through my evaluation, putting his sandwich on the bumper and wiping his hands on his dirty coveralls. “Griff needs friends. Please get him out of my hair.”
“Hey now.”
Locke snaps his fingers and points one at me. “Stop hiding.” But I see the meaning in his eyes. It’d be sweet if it wasn’t solely because he wants all of my horny testosterone out of his space. He’s more of a sweaty, dirty testosterone kind of guy and not in the fun way.
I turn to Riley and thrust my hands in my pockets. “Guess that means we’re going on a date.”
He frowns only for a second before he lights up with a smile. “See. I’m getting used to your humor.”
We leave Locke to his business, and I don’t know where the hell we’re going to go, but just walking around the town with Riley proves to be the most fun I’ve had in a day off since joining the team. Hell, since the last two teams I’ve gone through.
It’s not like we even get up to anything special. We talk. Split my meatball sub because I feel like a jackass eating in front of people and not sharing. Southern manners and all. It doesactually feel kind of like a date, but I won’t risk making that joke twice.
“So,” Riley says from the back booth of a Waffle House we stop at later because not a chance a six inch sub fills up a man his size. “About the apartments.”
