Queenie glances at the screen. “You have an alarm set for dinner?”

“I have to eat frequent meals, so it helps if I set a reminder, particularly at the beginning of the season, or when we’re traveling. Otherwise it can interfere with my workout schedule, since exercise on a full stomach isn’t particularly effective.” I don’t generally touch my phone when driving, but since we’re stopped at a light, I silence the alarm.

“That makes sense. You guys must get hungry often, considering how hard you all push yourselves,” Queenie replies.

“I try to eat every two to three hours.”

“Or for an hour straight,” she mutters.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.” Her cheeks flush pink to match mine. I’m pretty sure she just referenced our night together. “If you need to stop and grab something, go ahead.”

“Are you hungry? We could grab something together.”

“Uh, that’s nice of you to offer, but it’s probably not a good idea.”

“Why not?”

“Well, that’s kind of like a date, isn’t it?”

“Friends go for dinners, don’t they? Bishop and I go for food all the time.”

“Yeah, but you haven’t ever wet humped Bishop, have you?” Queenie slaps her palm over her mouth. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I said that.”

I grip the wheel tightly, trying not to let the memories surface. “I can take you home if that’s what you prefer.”

“I’m sorry, Kingston, I didn’t mean to make this awkward. We can grab something to eat. As friends.”

I glance over at her. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah. I’m sure. It’ll probably help us get over all the awkward, right?”

“Definitely.” Or at least it should. I hope. “How do you feel about a steak house?”

“I feel good about it. How do you feel about it?”

“Also good.” I signal left and switch lanes, slowing down so I can make the turn, then heading away from Queenie’s house and toward one of my favorite restaurants. It’s nice but also casual, so it should feel less like a date.

Except they seat us in a cozy corner in the back of the restaurant, at a private table.

Our server, who is a guy in his midtwenties, tucks Queenie into the table, which is what I should have done if he hadn’t gotten to it before me. “Can I get you something to drink? Would you like to look at the wine menu?”

“Oh no, that’s okay,” Queenie says. “I’ll take a root beer, please.”

“And for yourself?”

“I’ll take a large milk. Two percent if you have it, please.” I wait until the server leaves before I turn my attention back to Queenie, who looks like she’s trying not to laugh. “What?” I swipe at my chin, worried I have something on my face.

“Milk?”

“I have a glass with every meal.”

Queenie props her chin on her fist. “So did I as a kid; my dad insisted on it.” She’s grinning, and obviously poking fun at me. I’m used to it. The guys on the team like to razz me about it all the time.

“I have a sensitive stomach. It helps coat it before a big meal. Also, it’s good for your bones; has lots of calcium, essential vitamins, and minerals; and is a good source of protein,” I explain.

Queenie chuckles and bites her lip. “I’m just playing with you. I think it’s cute.”

“Cute?”

“Mmm, cute.” She ducks her head. “You’re an interesting guy, you know that?”

“Because I drink milk with every meal?”

She makes a general motion toward me. “Because you’re you.”

“That’s not much of an explanation.”

The server returns with Queenie’s root beer and my glass of milk. We order our meals, and I opt for chicken and pasta with a salad so I can cover all my food groups and everything is easily digestible. Queenie orders steak, truffle fries, and a garden salad. I have to remind myself that this isn’t a date, just two friends having dinner together.

Once the server leaves us alone again, I prompt her to elaborate.

“Well, you’re this famous hockey goalie, except you’re really low key about the whole thing.”

“It’s my job, that’s all.”

Queenie rolls her eyes. “Well, yeah, but you make seven figures a year, and a lot of your teammates are all about social media and showing off, but you’re just . . . not like that at all. Plus you have this incredibly wholesome image, from the milk with every meal, to the driving the speed limit all the time, to the whole khakis and polos deal. What’s that all about, by the way?”

I run a hand over my chest. “Is there something wrong with khakis and polos?”

“No, but other than a suit or goalie gear, it’s the only thing I see you wear.” Her gaze shifts to my chest and then back up.

“Well it’s like semicasual, semiformal, isn’t it?” When she cocks her head to the side, I continue. “And jeans can be uncomfortable, but khakis are always soft, and you can always dress them up or down with shoes. If I’m going to a barbecue, I can throw on a pair of tennis shoes and it’s casual, but if I’m going for dinner, like tonight, I can dress them up with a pair of loafers or dress shoes.” I stick my foot out so she can see my black, polished shoes. “Plus, white shirts are easy to wash. I can always put a capful of bleach in the load, and I don’t have to worry about faded colors, or mixing colors.”