“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.”

“So it’s a convenience thing?”

“Mostly, I guess. Once I accidentally put a red shirt in with my whites and everything turned pink, which I’m not opposed to, and I was in the middle of a breast cancer campaign for my cousin, so it wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, but you can see how the colors can be an issue.”

“Okay, so let me get this straight. You drink milk because you have a sensitive stomach and it’s good for you.”

“Correct,” I supply.

“And you wear khakis because they’re convenient and white shirts because it’s easier than colors.”

“Also correct.”

“And you’re a famous goalie.”

“I’m not famous.”

“You are, at least in the hockey world, and it’s not something to feel bad about.” Queenie taps her lip. “How many long-term serious relationships have you had?”

“What does that have to do with my wardrobe and sensitive stomach?”

“Nothing. I’m just curious and trying to figure you out. Plus, I know what you’re like when you get naked, and it doesn’t match the milk-drinking, khaki-wearing Boy Scout.” She’s smirking, and her eyes glint with mischief and maybe some memories of that night.

“That’s not really what I’m like.”

“That’s not what you’re like, period, or that’s not what you’re like with anyone but me?”

“That’s . . . I don’t . . . I’m not—” I stumble over my words, unsure how to respond, because I’m not sure the truth is something I should divulge if we’re supposed to be keeping this platonic.

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have asked that.”

“The alcohol made me less inhibited,” I blurt.

“So, lowered inhibitions are to blame?” Based on her grin, I think she’s still poking fun at me.

“Yes. No. I don’t know. I’ve only been drunk three times.”

Queenie’s eyes flare. “Like, ever? In your entire life?”

“Yeah. I had a bad experience as a teenager that I haven’t wanted to repeat ever again.”

“Did you get trashed at some hockey party in high school or something?”

“Uh, no. Let’s just say my older brother wasn’t a great influence.” And not much has changed since I was a teenager.

“Still, sort of an extreme reaction, to never drink again.”

“I drink, but usually only one, and never shots,” I explain. “What about you?”

“I’ve made plenty of bad decisions while under the influence; unlike you, I don’t seem to learn from them.”

“But you said you don’t usually go home with random strangers.”

“Oh, I don’t. That was a first for me. And just so we’re clear, you were actually one of the best bad decisions I’ve ever had the misfortune of making.” Queenie winks.

I focus on my glass, wishing this situation were less complicated, and that I’d taken her out on a date before we’d ended up in bed, naked, and then almost had sex. “I’m glad you feel that way. And I’m still sorry about . . . how overzealous I was.”

“I happened to enjoy your overzealousness.” Queenie blows out a breath. “Anyway, let’s change the topic, since this one is probably going to get me into trouble. What’s your favorite thing to do when you’re not playing hockey?”

“Trouble how?”

“It’s probably not a good idea to stroll down that memory lane, you know? Especially since we’re working on the friend angle.”

“Right. Good point. I like pretty much anything that’s a physical activity.”

Queenie laughs. “Well, you’re good at physical activity, so that makes sense.”

“What about you? What do you like to do when you’re not at work?”

Queenie shrugs and focuses on cutting her steak. “I used to like to do arty things.”

“Arty like what?”

“Whatever I felt like, really.”

“So you’re creative, then? How did you end up working as your dad’s assistant?”

“The crafty stuff is a hobby. And I ended up working for my dad because his old assistant’s husband had a heart attack and needed surgery, and she decided to take early retirement. I was between jobs, so I offered to help him out until I can figure what the heck I want to do with my life.”

“You mean career-wise?”

Queenie points her fork at me. “Whoa, hold up, it’s my turn to ask a question.”