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“You want to grab lunch with me somewhere?” I chew on the inside of my cheek. “There’s this meatball place where the guys like to go,” I remember my hesitation about what to call her. “We can talk about our rules, what names we use and stuff.”

“Huh. Yeah. That’s a good idea. Want to text me the address? I’ll meet you there.”

We hang up, and I fire off a text with the link to Gianna’s. And then something lights up in my brain. I add another message:

There’s a Thai meatball on the menu, but I don’t think you should get it.

BB

And why not?

Me

Cilantro.

I remember something she said at Costco: that she had a bad experience with salsa because of it.

You said it tastes like soap…

There’s a silence, and I see dots flashing across my screen, like Briar is composing a long response. With my family, this usually means I’m about to get a misspelled, complicated ask. So I tense up, but when Briar’s response comes through, I feel strange. Warm?

BB

Yeah. Thanks, Mayhem. I’ll see you in 15 min.

For the first time in longer than I can remember, I'm looking forward to something that has nothing to do with hockey.

Chapter 6

Briar

I have no idea why my teammates have not jumped on Gianna’s Meatball Joint. The logo is hilarious—a meatball dripping with sauce and the words HOT. STEAMY. TENDER.

I wonder if they sell shirts…

I love that the men’s team hangs out here instead of some sports bar with flashing lights and TVs in every corner. With pitchers of blue liquor. That's where my ex liked to go. He liked trendy places, and it was impossible to talk.

This is the opposite of that.

The historic-looking building has exposed brick and weathered wood everywhere. It’s also got the kind of lighting that gives everything a warm glow. And it smells freaking great. Like garlic and spices. I stand in the entry for a second, just breathing it in, before I look around for my fake boyfriend.

There are a bunch of long wooden tables and not many patrons for lunch. I see a guy in the corner with a laptop, but he is definitely not Cameron Miller.

"Hey." A woman emerges from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel. She has dark hair piled on her head, a cute apron, and a smile. “You looking for a table or picking up?” She is very clearly in charge here. Perhaps the famous Gianna herself?

“Hi,” I stutter. “I’m meeting Mayhem?” Why is my voice so high-pitched?

“Ah.” Her smile warms up even more, and she waggles her eyebrows at me. “You must be BB.” She laughs. “That’s fun to say.”

“Hi.” I extend my hand. “You must be Gianna?”

She shakes and gestures toward a square, quiet corner table, set slightly apart from the others. "He always sits there. You want water while you wait?"

"Please."

I take the seat facing the door, a habit from years of team dinners when you want to see who's arriving. Gianna brings water and a small dish of something — a little round ball in dark sauce, with a toothpick.

"Try it," she says. "Tell me what you think. I'm testing a new reduction."