The neon sign of the Puck & Patty diner buzzed with a dull hum, almost lost in the noise of the post-game crowd packed inside. The place was loud and chaotic and smelled heavily of fried food and spilled soda.
Sitting across from Cole in the back corner booth, I felt completely out of my element.
We didn't do this. We didn't do "victory dinners," and we definitely didn't sit alone in corner booths together.
Usually, we went out of our way to avoid being seen together in public.
When we had first walked through the diner doors ten minutes ago, it felt like every head in the room had turned. Half the town had been at the game, and Cole was the clear hero of the night. People had clapped him on the shoulder, congratulating him, while I had desperately tried to shrink into the collar of
