I considered making my own spreadsheet to see how he liked me doing the monitoring.Column A: Times Evan Looked at Me Like I Was a Garbage Fire. Column B: Times I Enjoyed It.
This morning's entry? Both columns full.
He'd been scrambling eggs. No music or talking, only the tiny click of a spatula on the nonstick pan and the kettle gurgling to life. I walked into the kitchen in low-slung sweats and no shirt because hey, when the thermostat's set to glacial and your abs are finally poking through again, why wouldn't you?
I stretched. Reached up to the top cabinet. Slowly.
Evan didn't speak, but he stared at my reflection in the chrome toaster.
Drops of water from the shower trailed down my chest, a line from collarbone to waistband. When he returned to focusing on his eggs, his jaw was tight, and his ears had turned the faintest shade of pink.
"Morning." My voice was low and husky.
He didn't reply. He adjusted the stove heat by half a notch and scrambled like his life depended on it.
I slid onto a stool at the island, watching him stir. "So, big day for me. Thinking of breaking the world record for shirtless fridge sock placement. Want in?"
Still no answer.
I leaned forward. "Evan, buddy. You can't keep updating my crime sheet without letting me mount a defense."
He paused, giving me a long, unreadable look. "Defense requires a coherent strategy."
"Oh, I have a strategy. It's called havoc."
"Ah, a surrender to entropy."
I held my hands out, palms up. "And yet, somehow, I'm still here. Showering. Singing. Surviving."
He turned back to the stove. "Some of us are trying to eat breakfast."
I leaned my chin on my palm. "You're cute when you're grumpy."
That earned me nothing but the clink of eggs hitting a plate. Still, I didn't miss how his hand hesitated as he reached for the fork.
We sat in silence. He chewed mechanically, and I watched, annoying him on purpose.
I loved how he didn't flinch.
Not yet.
***
The thing about chirping is that it's an art.
You can't merely throw words around and hope they land. You've got to time it—right between a pass and a pivot, or right when the guy's just winded enough to hate you but not enough to murder you. Knowing your audience is fundamental.
That's where I made my first mistake.
I thought Evan Carter could take a little chirp. A wink. Maybe a compliment that didn't sound like one.
Spoiler: He couldn't.
We were halfway through a mid-week scrimmage, and I was trying to crawl out from under the glare Rusk had given me before we hit the ice.
"You want to be more than a goddamn mascot? Prove it."
Mascot? Maybe I should try to spice things up.
