Page 61 of Sticks and Stones (Shadow Valley U)
“And you have to tip me.”
I lean toward her. “If you want my tip,baby, all you’ve got to do is ask.”
Her lips part.
Goddamn, she’s so fucking pretty. She tucks her dark hair behind her ear and straightens, the shock fading to mock-outrage. Because she’s not really angry. She’s doing her best to hide a smile.
“If you need a little mid-shift stress relief, I know just the thing.”
“Stone.” She clears her throat. “Do you want to order or…”
I roll my eyes and order a water and their spaghetti and meatballs. They’re not a true Italian place, but they manage to keep the noodles al dente. Which is fine enough for me.
She makes a face and wanders away, and I pull out my homework. I spread it out on the table and go through it until she returns with the water and silverware.
“How long is your shift?”
She shrugs. “On a Monday? I’ll probably get cut at seven.”
It’s dead quiet, and it’s almost five-thirty.
“Great, do that. You can come with me to practice.”
“No.”
I give her my best offended expression. Judging by the purse of her lips, though, she doesn’t fall for it.
“I think it would be in your best interest,” I say slowly.
“No need to talk down to me, Stone.”
“I could drag you there.” I sit up straighter, the wicked thoughts of exactly what I would do to make her stay there running through my mind. “Have you ever been fucked in the penalty box, Sticks?”
She groans. “Oh my God.”
“You mean, ‘Oh my Stone.’ Better practice because that’s what you’ll be screaming later this evening…” I chuckle and grab her hand. “Get cut early and come to practice. Don’t make me say please.”
“Would you? Say please?”
I smirk. “Maybe…”
She sighs. “I’m going to check on my one other table.”
As soon as she’s gone, I slide out of the booth and approach the hostess. “Who’s in charge of cutting waitresses for the night?”
The girl is too…I don’t know, starstruck? She stares at me for a beat, and I’m reminded that I am into Wren because she doesn’t have this insane reaction. I’m human. Just because I play hockey well doesn’t mean girls need to throw themselves at my feet.
Garnering national attention for how I play is damaging to the ego enough as it is.
“Um, I do,” she finally answers.
“Great.” I flick through my wallet and pull out a fifty, pushing the bill into her hand. “Make sure Wren is off in the next hour.”
She glances from me to the money, then back up. “Oh, um…”
“Thanks!” I leave her standing there before she can change her mind. People generally react better that way—when they think you expect something of them, and they don’t have the chance to refute it.
Once my food is gone, my bill paid—and Wren tipped, as demanded—I catch the waitress’s gaze and raise my eyebrow.