I think about him all afternoon. Not in the way I want to. It is not about the warmth of his hands on my waist or the way his voice dropped when he asked if I was okay. It is the question he left me with.
What did Connor write?
It echoes like the rink’s boards after a slapshot, bouncing back no matter how much I try to distract myself.
The thought lingers while I work at my mom’s pizza shop. The place smells like oregano and melted cheese, the same as it has since I was little, but today the air feels heavy. Stifling. My nerves are too restless for comfort. I fold napkins tighter than necessary, so crisp they could stand on their own. I burn my tongue on a slice I should have let cool. I forget to greet customers until they are already at the counter.
The day crawls. I am wiping down t
