I turn the seat warmer on, because even though it’s the beginning of March, Connecticut still feels like the inside of a walk-in freezer.
Rhodes glances at me, biting back a grin. “Cold, Abrams?”
“It’s thirty-one degrees out, McKnight.” I crank up the heat higher, just to be petty. He shrugs his shoulders in mock surrender.
“Where are we going?” I ask, shifting in my seat.
“To get food, then back to your apartment to eat food. And then, if you want to go over your clinic notes one more time, we can.”
I roll my eyes. “That sounded very boyfriend-y, Rhodes.”
He rolls his eyes. “Itisboyfriend-y, Monroe.”
I shake my head at him. He’s completely insufferable lately—not that I’m giving him any red lights anymore, anyways. We’ve been…somethingfor a month now. I’m not ready for a label, but he sure as hell is.
“This is strictly selfish,” he defends, throwing the car into drive. “I want to compare notes, make sure we’re on the same page for our joint skates.” He shrugs. “And I’m hungry.”
“Hmm,” I say, crossing my arms, considering his words. I decide he’s full of shit, but allow it anyway.
We pull into the parking lot of Stew Leonard’s, the local grocery store, and he parks. Before I’ve even unbuckled my seatbelt, Rhodes is already out, coming around to my side. He opens my door and holds out a hand like a perfect gentleman. I roll my lips together in a line. He makes it absolutely impossible not to think he’s wonderful, and it’s turning into a problem.
“After you.” He smirks. His fingers skim my lower back as I step out, the warmth of them cutting through the cold. I’ve given up willing my body not to react tohis. Spending copious amounts of alone time with Rhodes McKnight is a dangerous game. I’m losing.
The store is quiet at almost eight p.m. We’re two of the only people perusing the aisles, our cart filled with groceries that are more and more closely resembling what children would pick out if given free rein in a convenience store.
“Favorite snack?” he asks, tossing in three bags of chips without looking.
I scan the shelves, grabbing a bag of pretzels and throwing them in.
Rhodes stops dead in his tracks. “Pretzels?” He grabs the bag out of the cart and holds it up. “Come on, you’ve gotta like something more exciting than that.”
I huff and snatch the bag back. “I need cream cheese.”
Rhodes blinks. “Pretzels and cream cheese?”
“It’s my favorite snack. Don’t knock it till you try it.”
“That’s gross.” But he grins as he follows me over to the dairy aisle.
Rhodes ducks into the ice cream section and comes back with two pints, tossing them onto the growing mountain of food in our cart.
“We need bread. And cheese,” he says, looking at the aisle signs.
I raise an eyebrow.
“Grilled cheese, Monroe. Please keep up.”
I fight back a smile. “Grilled cheese is your favorite snack?”
“No,” he scoffs. “But grilled cheese is my superstition food. Gotta eat one the night before a big game.”
I squint. “Is this…science?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He leans against the cart. “One time, before I was in the NHL, I was playing a college game. Frozen Four. I ate a grilled cheese the night before, and we won it all. Obviously, that means grilled cheese is lucky, so now every night before something big, I’ve gotta eat one.”