Chapter 3

3

Luke

I'm at work, manning the front so Wendy and Reggie can take their "break". It's only midnight and I have a bad feeling that I've seen the last of the night's customers—nothing to do but stand here and scroll Instagram. I click on the profile of a guy I'm supposed to meet up with this weekend at a party. He goes to a local college and seems cool enough. Not a lot going on upstairs, judging by our message chain, but I don't suppose we'll be doing much talking if we do meet up.

On a whim, I close out of his profile and type Max Kuemper in the search bar. Lots of hits but none are who I'm searching for. I try a few other social media sites and get the same result. So, no online presence for Maxy—odd, in someone our age. I pull up our text message thread to ask him about it just as the bell chimes on the front door. Dropping my phone into my apron pocket, I push myself to standing and smile.

"Hello, you. Please tell me you're real and not a fragment of my imagination," I say to Max, who approaches the counter, but stops well back from it.

"I'm not sure I can adequately prove that, one way or the other. I feel like you've probably got a pretty impressive imagination."

"True," I laugh. "Your booth is open. I'll bring you some coffee."

"Oh," he cups a hand over the back of his neck and looks surprised, as though it's impressive that I remembered the single item he ordered last night. "Okay, sure. Thank you."

I watch him out of the corner of my eye as I prepare a fresh pot of coffee. He looks exhausted—dark rings under his eyes and a slump to his shoulders that wasn't there yesterday. He's swimming in another massive shirt, at least two sizes too big. Something about the whole look makes me want to give him a hug.

"There you go, nice and fresh, and fully decaffeinated." I put a mug down in front of him along with a glass of water. "Anything to eat? Breakfast? Pie, again? Reggie can make anything."

"Uhm, yeah, I should probably eat," he says wearily. "Maybe just some eggs."

"Bacon? Toast? You a sausage guy?" I waggle my eyebrows at him and he cracks a smile. "How do you want your eggs?"

"Surprise me," he replies, shrugging.

"You got it, handsome." I wink at him and he scoffs, shaking his head. My best friend, Margot, tells me I'm an "incessant flirt", which is apparently a bad thing. I would challenge anybody to have a conversation with Max Kuemper and not flirt; the man is a fucking babe.

I push back into the kitchen, scratching down an order for Max. Ripping it off, I wave it in front of Reggie's face until he snatches it away in annoyance. He slams his cards down on the kitchen worktop, dramatically.

"You're the reason I will never have kids," he says, pointing a finger at me. Out of his line of sight, Wendy is peeking at his hand, splayed out on the table.

"Really? The only reason?" I give a pointed look at the grease stains on his shirt and then dodge as he tries to cuff me on the side of the head. "Hey now, don't make me go to HR."

"I'm HR," Wendy rasps, "and I'm okay with all forms of corporal punishment."

Hopping up onto one of the counters, I watch Reggie fire up the grill. From my vantage point here, I can peek over the top of the swinging doors and see the top of Max's copper head. His hair looks different today—maybe he got a haircut.

"Hey, can you throw some on there for me, too?" I ask, stomach growling at the smell of cooking bacon.

"Sure, kiddo," he says easily, as though he didn't just try to whack me.

Lifting myself up so I can see Max better, I watch him for a few moments. He's got his book out again, one hand holding it flat against the table and the other propping his head up. Even his body language looks tired. I wonder why the fuck he's here instead of at home in bed. Reggie plates our food, sliding them over to me and holding up a hand before I can open my mouth to ask.

"Yes, you can take a break."

"Thanks, Reg." Pushing out into the dining area, I tuck two sets of silverware under my arm and whistle my way over to Max. He hears me coming and looks up, eyebrows raised as he looks at the food. I set the bigger plate down in front of him .

"Voila!"

"Uhm," he says, looking down at the full breakfast, "this is way too much food."

Sliding into the booth across from him, I grab the salt and pepper. "Mm, you need the calories though. And the protein. I know how closely they monitor you hockey boys."

"True," he concedes, picking up his fork. He seems to think about something for a second and then adds: "I've been struggling with keeping my weight up this season. Coach mentioned it today, actually."

"Well, keep eating the food here and we'll fatten you up in no time." I try to inject a little levity, if only because Max looks like he needs it. He looks sad ; like there is a little raincloud hovering over his head, following him around and raining on his parade. He takes a small bite of egg, chewing slowly and concentrating as though eating is a serious affair.

"How's your night going?" He asks.

"Fine. It's slow, so I've been going out of my mind with boredom. I don't do well without direction." I grin around a mouthful of bacon.

"Do you…work every night?"

"Why? Planning on coming to see me?" I tease, and he rolls his eyes as he butters a piece of toast and puts an egg on it. "But yeah, I work every night that I don't have a game, usually."

"You guys have a game tomorrow, don't you?"

"Yep. And so do you. Are you one of those vampires that stays awake all night and then sleeps during the day?"

He laughs and his hand creeps back up to the back of his neck. "I wish I could sleep during the day. I wish I could sleep at all."

Frowning, I twirl my fork around in my fingers. Max takes a sip of coffee and looks out the dark window, pretending to find the night interesting. It's obvious he's embarrassed about sharing. I want to say something bracing, maybe give him some advice; nothing I can think of sounds sincere, though. It all sounds like empty platitudes. He takes it out of my hands before I can commit.

"So, anyway, Luke…" He trails off, leaving the tail end of the sentence hanging. I pick it up for him.

"Did you do something different with your hair?" He looks at me blankly. I gesture to his head. "I don't know, it looks flatter tonight."

"I brushed it," he says, reaching up to touch the side of his head. I laugh, hastily covering my mouth with my napkin so I don't spray spit all over his food. He scowls. "We can't all pull off the artfully messy look like you. If I tried to do my hair like yours, I'd look insane."

"Hey, don't knock the fake messy look. Drives all the boys wild."

"Clearly," he deadpans.

"So, you brushed your hair before you came here tonight. I feel like I should be flattered. Did you shower? Brush your teeth? How much personal grooming went into this diner visit?"

"I feel like your break is over and it's time for you to go back to work."

"Yes. Because there are so many people here, clamoring for my service." We both turn and look at the empty diner. Max chuckles under his breath. "All right, Maxy. If you could have any super power, what would it be?"

He doesn't even blink at the random question. "Invisibility," he answers, so quickly it's evident he didn't have to think about it. I raise an eyebrow at him .

"Why?" I'm genuinely curious. I can't think of a single reason beyond voyeurism to want to be invisible.

"Well, I don't know," he says, looking away and putting a hand on the back of his neck again. I wonder if it's a nervous tick; a tell that shows his tension. "I guess I just don't like to be the center of attention. I think it would be nice to just…disappear sometimes, you know?"

I frown at him. "You're going to play hockey in the NHL, in front of thousands of people. You're going to be the center of attention a lot ."

"Outside of hockey. I don't know. Sometimes I'd like to hide; if nobody can see you, they can't see something they'd like to take."

" What? " I lean across the table toward him and he grimaces, a red flush spreading across his cheekbones. He waves a hand.

"Nothing, never mind. Ignore me. Not enough sleep." He smiles reassuringly, and wholly unconvincingly. "What about you? What would your super power be? You've already got a silver tongue, so it can't be that."

I smile, because it's clear he's wishing he hadn't overshared and I don't want to make him more uncomfortable. I tamp down the urge to press him for more. What the fuck did he mean by that?

"I think super speed. Would be useful for baseball, but also life. I wouldn't need to drive to work, I could just," I snap my fingers, "run here in thirty seconds without breaking a sweat."

"Mm. What about flying?"

"You're forgetting about baseball. I feel like the league might draw the line at flying. "

"But running the bases at super speed would be allowed?"

"This is my imaginary world, Max, let me have this."

He laughs, picking up a slice of bacon and looking at it as though he's never seen one before. Taking the smallest bite possible, he chews and swallows, and takes another minuscule bite. It's like watching a giant bird peck at its food. He eats the whole slice, though, and starts back in on the eggs and toast. I peek into his coffee cup.

"Be right back," I tell him, sliding out of the booth and skipping over to grab the decaf. I top him off and grab a mug for myself, because why the hell not. I'm planning on sitting at that table with him for the rest of the damn night. When I sit back down, he's made little headway in his food. His plate had the same amount as mine, and I've already finished. Never in my life have I met a college athlete—or any sort of athlete, really—who doesn't eat like they're starving all of the time.

"Thank you," he says as I sit back down and he picks up the mug.

"No problem. Is your food okay?"

"It's good. Not sure I'll be able to finish it all, though," he sighs, looking down at his plate in dismay. I reach over and pluck off a strip of bacon. He glances up at me and smiles. "You have an away weekend next week, right? That's what Marcos told me."

"Yeah. Away weekends are always fun." I fucking love getting out of town, staying in a hotel room, and hopping on a dating app to pick up a local for the evening. Uncomplicated, no-strings-attached sex, and then I hop on a bus and head back home to real life. Perfect .

"Marcos hates them," he confides, and I roll my eyes dramatically.

"Of course, he does! You know, if he was a ghost, he'd be one of those that just floats around moaning all the time."

Max laughs and the sound fills the empty diner; I join in, and soon we're bent double and struggling to breathe. Wendy pokes her head out of the kitchen, and scowls at me.

"I'm serious," I choke out. "He never comes out with the team. No wonder he hates away games—anybody would if they refuse to leave the hotel."

"Yeah," he says slowly. "He's not much of a party guy. Neither of us are."

"Nah, you're more of a diner guy." I smile at him and he grins back. Lord, but he does have a nice face. I wish I had my camera on me—even in shitty lighting like this he would look ethereal and striking. I've never seen a more distinct coloring on a man.

"What?" He frowns, plucking up his napkin and wiping it across his mouth.

"Oh, no, you're good. I was just enjoying your beauty. I was thinking that if I had my camera, I'd take a shot just like this," I hold my thumbs and forefingers up in a square, "and adjust the brightness—the contrast—just a bit. I wouldn't do black and white for you, though. I'd want to be able to see the color of your hair and eyes. We'd have to muss up your hair a bit though; it's just too perfect. I liked the bedhead."

I punctuate this little speech with a sip of coffee. Max looks struck dumb by my pronouncement; staring at me with his lips parted slightly and eyes wide. I want to grab his face and kiss him.

"You…uhm…like photography?" He asks, neatly skipping over the part where I told him he was beautiful, though I can tell he caught it by the way he's got his hand firmly planted over the back of his neck again.

"I do. Someday you'll have to let me take your picture, Invisible Man."

He shakes his head, eyes angled back down to the table. "Do you have any of your photos with you? On your phone? Can I see?"

"Sure!" I pull my phone out of my apron pocket, and scroll through my pictures, trying to find some good ones to show him. "This screen is too small for you to get the full experience, but you can get the idea."

I slide my phone over to him, watching his face as he bends over to look. He glances up at me and mimes a scrolling motion with his finger. "Can I?"

"Go for it. Don't mind the random nudes," I tell him cheerfully. He sends me a wry look before looking back down. I apply myself to getting a good look at his face, tracing over the lines of his cheekbones and jaw with my eyes. There is a cluster of freckles near his nose; I wonder if he's one of those people who gets freckles instead of a tan when exposed to the sun.

"I like this one," he murmurs, still looking at my phone. I lean over to see.

It's one I took of our pitcher, Vince, when I spontaneously brought my camera gear to practice one day. It's not an action shot, like most you see. He's standing on the mound, head down and hat brim shielding most of his face. He's looking at the ball in his hand, glove hanging limp by his side. There are a baseman and an outfielder visible in the photo, but too far away to be more than indistinct blurs. I hadn't meant it to be, but the picture is lonely and a little bit sad. When I'd shown it to Vince, he'd stared at it for a long time before asking for a copy, something indiscernible in his voice.

"Me, too. There's one of Marcos the Grouch, too. I caught him smiling , Maxy. Photographic proof."

"I should hang a copy above our mantle," he jokes, cracking a smile as he looks at me and hands my phone back. "Those are really good, Luke. Are you studying photography, then?"

"Yep." I fidget with my phone, twirling it around on the table. I reach my free hand over the table and nudge his plate toward him with my fingertips, reminding him that he's got food to finish. He grimaces, but picks his fork back up. "I'm not good enough to play pro ball, but I'd like to stay involved; I'm going to try and be a sports photographer."

"Well, anybody who sees those," he points at my phone as I slip it back into my pocket, "will hire you on the spot."

"I need to come and do the hockey games. My collection is missing Max Kuemper and I just can't have that."

He smiles, putting a piece of egg into his mouth and chewing slowly. By the time he finishes eating, I'm going to be hungry again. Headlights flash across the front windows, and I turn to watch the door. For the first time since I started this job, I pray nobody comes inside. I don't want to meet any new strangers, tonight; I want to talk to Max.

"They must have been using the parking lot to turn around," he says, when I turn back to face him.

"Are you free Saturday morning?" I ask, and enjoy the very obvious play of emotions over his face at the random question. I'd bet money that he's free, but trying to come up with plans on the fly.

"Why?" He asks noncommittally .

"I was going to go to the beach, take some pictures for an assignment. You should come with me."

"Really?"

"Yeah, really." My fingers tingle with the urge to pick up my camera and go now. Max on the beach, pants rolled up and feet bare. Maybe he'd take his giant ass shirt off. I'm practically salivating at the thought of all the photographic gold I might discover.

"Well…sure. Yeah. I'll come," he says, and then looks surprised at his own daring. "What are you going to be photographing?"

Standing, I reach in front of him and pile our dirty dishes together. He leans away, slightly, as though to give me room and avoid brushing against me. I wait until he looks up at me to answer.

"You."