“That’s a lot of pressure.”

“You have broad shoulders. You can carry it.”

“Maybe,” I say. “I’ll think about it.”

“Good.” Meg turns the radio on low, scooting her seat back a bit and tucking her feet under her. She hums while we eat, and our conversation is light but comfortable.

“Poor Duke,” she says suddenly. “Think he’ll be feeling that in the morning?”

“Probably, but at least this time, he has something positive to look forward to.” I squeeze her hand. “He does this every few months. Usually after his dad says something extra shitty to him. He’ll overdrink, get sick, swear to never do it again, and doesn’t for a while, but then it starts all over again.”

“And you never join him?”

I shake my head. “I really don’t. I rarely go to parties, honestly. I don’t like the noise, and inevitably, someone will recognize me as that pastor’s kid, and it’s just not a road I want to go down.”

Meg tilts her head. “Did anyone recognize you at the Halloween party? Besides Emily, I mean?”

I grin. “Nope. If they saw me, I doubt they noticed anything other than my beautiful girlfriend.”

She beams a smile at me. “You’re sweet. I could barely concentrate on anyone at all. Micah in a suit is like a whole new level, and I am totally here for it.”

I snicker but feel my cheeks heat.

Meg crumples up her burrito wrapper, adopting a dreamy look. “All I could think about was how lucky I am to be dating a pro wrestler.”

“No.”

“Competitive bass fisherman.”

“Not a chance.”

“Hockey player.”

I don’t say anything.

Meg’s head turns to me in slow motion, her eyes wide and full of glee. “You play hockey?”

“Only in a club league. We start up again next week, actually.”

“You play hockey.”

“And lots of other things, but technically, yes. I am a hockey player.”

Her eyes take on a mischievous glint. “And I am a former competitive figure skater, which means—”

“Stop.”

“—we are like, six degrees from my all-time favorite rom-com—”

“Don’t say it.”

“The Cutting Edge.”

“There it is.”

She squeals. “I’m serious, Micah! I’ve watched it a thousand times. Well, most of it. Of course, my mom had some bootlegged, kid-friendly version that was missing the tequila scene—”

“Naturally.”

“—but, oh my word, when I saw that with Vada last year!” She slips back happily against her seat with a sigh. “I’ve always wanted to date a hockey player when I grow up.”

“You did not.”

“I have! I swear it. Cross my heart, hope to die, stick a needle in my thread.”

“That’s not how that goes.”

“Micah! Be serious.”

“I’m finding it difficult, to be honest.”

“A grumpy hockey player with magic fingers,” she says to herself.

I choke on air. “Excuse me?”