Page 133 of One Night with Number Nineteen

“Um...”

“Mom,” Amy interjects. “Stop.”

But she does it while stroking her hand down my arm. “Tell us all about you, Sawyer,” she says. “I want to know everything about you.”

“Um…”

Rebecca winces. “Or we could⁠—”

“How long have you been Grizzlies fans?” I interject hastily.

“Oh, ever since that yummy Gray Roberts joined the roster,” Rhonda says. “But his auction prize was far too expensive, even with the three of us pooling our funds.”

“Two,” Rebecca corrects quietly. “Amy didn’t—” She shakes her head and smiles at me. “I’ve been a Grizzlies fan from the beginning. Gosh”—she looks up, as though counting—“it must be twenty-something years now.”

“And without a Cup,” Amy says. Then laughs and makes as though to reach for me again. “At least the roster’s gotten hotter over the years.”

Bri flinches, her face going pale. “I think we should focus on⁠—”

“Our first course,” I say as the waiter comes over. “Oh, wow,” I add deliberately. “Asparagus, that’s my girlfriend’s favorite vegetable.”

Amy’s eyes flare in irritation.

I just take the opportunity to scoot my chair away, far enough that Amy would have to have Inspector Gadget arms to reach me.

“I’m so sorry,” Bri murmurs as the plates are placed in front of us.

“Not on you,” I murmur back.

And then I deliberately turn the conversation back to hockey—and not the hotness factor of the Grizzlies’ roster. I learn that Rhonda and Amy know enough about the game to have favorite moments and players and that Rebecca actually played growing up.

“Just a bit of pond hockey,” she says a little shyly. “God, those were the days.”

I smile at her, and push back my empty plate, hoping that the waiter will get the hint and start moving us toward the second course.

Unfortunately, the women—Bri included—seem to be eating at a sloth’s pace.

I glance at my watch. One-forty.

There’s still time.

Still plenty of time.

So, why’s my stomach churning?

“Which game did you guys decide you want to see?” Bri asks into the quiet that falls.

I want to tell her to be quiet, to let the women eat.

But that doesn’t seem to be the priority for anyone but me.

Thank God, though, the first course is eventually swapped for the second.

One more course. Then dessert.

Then I’m out of here.

I barely taste the wine-braised chicken breast and carrots, can’t stomach more than a bite of the next course of steak and mashed potatoes.