[Emily’s POV]

The Italian place is cramped and loud in ways that feel specifically designed to punish me for decisions I haven’t even made yet.

Two days since the showcase and Coach still hasn’t announced her decision about captaincy. The waiting feels like being slowly digested by a bureaucratic snake with commitment issues.

Earlier, Chris reminded me about the dinner, suggested we go today, if I can. Innocent enough. A simple question requiring a simple answer.

Then Derek materialized with his supernatural ability to insert himself into situations like an unwanted garnish, and suddenly we’re doing a double date that nobody actually requested.

“This place has great tiramisu,” Chris says as we squeeze through the door. “My roommate swears by it. Claims it changed his entire worldview. Very transformative dessert.”

“Tiramisu can do that,” I agree. “Dessert-based philosophical revelations are underrated in academic circles.”

Derek claimed the window seat and Chris slid in across from him to continue some hockey conversation. Which leaves me and Maddie side by side on the remaining chairs facing the glass, pressed together like sardines.

The table is small enough that my elbow bumps Maddie’s every time I reach for water and the physical proximity feels like standing next to a transformer making concerning humming noises.

“Third period was brutal,” Chris tells Derek. “Peterson completely missed that coverage switch. Just stood there like a confused statue contemplating existence.”

“Peterson’s always been soft on transitions,” Derek agrees, leaning back. “I told Coach we need more two-on-one drills. Basic stuff he should know by now.”

They discuss hockey formations like generals planning invasions and I nod at appropriate intervals while calculating the exact distance between my knee and Maddie’s.

Two inches of charged air.

“What are you getting?” Maddie asks, studying the menu like it contains classified information requiring security clearance.

“Carbonara.” I tap my menu. “Classic choice. Pasta, eggs, cheese. The holy trinity of comfort food. Can’t go wrong with fundamentals.”

“Boring.” She turns a page with unnecessary drama. “Try the puttanesca. Has actual flavor. Some of us prefer food that doesn’t taste like beige cardboard.”

“Are you calling me boring?” I keep my voice light, but something underneath sharpens. “Because that feels like character assassination disguised as menu advice.”

“If the shoe fits, Emily.” She shrugs one shoulder elegantly.

Under the table, I kick her ankle. Not hard enough to bruise, just communicative. But Maddie kicks back immediately and her heel catches my shin with surgical precision.

“Mature,” she murmurs without looking up. “Very adult behavior. I’m impressed by your conflict resolution skills.”

“You started it with your pasta judgment.” I bump her elbow reaching for my water glass deliberately. “I’m merely defending my honor and my carbohydrate choices.”

“I offered culinary guidance. You responded with violence.” She bumps back, shifting closer. “There’s a proportionality issue here that concerns me.”

The silent war continues through appetizers. Nudges under the table. Knees pressing together then retreating. Neither willing to concede territory while the boys remain oblivious, deep in sports analysis.

I’m nodding along when Maddie shifts in her seat. Her hand lands on my knee—casual, like she’s bracing herself to reach for bread. Just steadying herself. Completely innocent.

But then one second goes, two, five, and still she doesn’t move it. Just resting there, casual as can be, like it’s a totally normal thing for her to be touching me under the table in the middle of a crowded restaurant.

My entire body goes rigid, every nerve ending suddenly on high alert.

What the fuck is she doing?

Chris and Derek are deep in some heated debate about forechecking and neutral zones, their voices fading to a distant buzz as I try to focus on literally anything other than Maddie’s hand.

She’s not moving it away. If anything, her fingers are pressing harder, digging into my skin through the denim of my jeans.

My breath hitches in my throat, my pulse kicking into overdrive as her thumb starts tracing slow, deliberate circles over my kneecap.

Oh god oh fuck oh holy shitballs.

This cannot be happening.

I must have fallen into some kind of alternate universe where the laws of physics and basic human decency no longer apply.

What the fuck is happening? What is she doing? What am I letting happen?

VERIFYCAPTCHA_LABELVerify