Overnight Sensation(44)

Our steaks will arrive on a platter with a plastic cow shoved into the meat to let us know how it’s cooked. A red cow for rare or a blue for medium. So elegant.

I’m obviously a horrible person for thinking these thoughts. A nice girl would donate her birthday gifts to a worthy cause. Or at least say no to a dinner that makes her a little uncomfortable.

Then again, I’m not a nice girl. Why does everyone insist on thinking I am?

We’re seated, and Eric gives me the better seat against the wall. He’s a gentleman in so many ways. I sneak looks at his boyish face over the edge of my menu. He’s objectively handsome. And he is a hockey player—totally my type. But I don’t feel any zing.

Every zing and flutter I feel these days comes from one particular struggling right-winger on Brooklyn’s greatest sports team.

“I’m told we’re supposed to get the tomato and onion salad to start,” Eric says, lifting cool eyes to mine.

“Great idea!” I hold his gaze and smile, willing my hormones to flash and pop.

Nothing.

“You look amazing tonight,” Eric says.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” I say and then inwardly cringe. He’s a good man. He’ll make some girl very happy. Am I selfish to want more than Eric can make me feel?

This is way too much thinking to do on my birthday.

We order the salad and the steak for two, and side dishes as well. “What a feast,” I say, trying to be a gracious date as the wine is poured and the appetizers served.

“It’s really good to see you.” He chuckles. “The Zamboni, though? I thought you had an office job.”

“I did. But Daddy is in a snit. He’s trying to force me to go back to school.”

“He’s worried about you,” Eric says. “You moved out, and he hasn’t seen you. I’m supposed to report back on your condition.”

“Oh, Jesus.” Eric’s eyes widen at the curse. “I’m just fine, as you can see for yourself. And the jobs I’m doing at the rink aren’t so bad.”

Eric grins. “You’re like their mascot. You actually know some of the team?”

Not biblically. “A little. Sure.” Eric obviously hasn’t seen that awful blog photo of Jason picking me up off the sidewalk. Small mercies.

“Why do they call you Hot Pepper?”

“It’s just a nickname. I mean—it’s catchier than Bell Pepper.”

Eric chuckles.

But—wait. “Actually, that has a nice ring to it. Sorry, one second.” It’s horribly rude to use your phone at the dinner table, but I pull mine out and tap Belle Pepper’s Delivery Service into my notes. Then I put it away again. “I need a name for my side hustle.”

“You’re hilarious,” Eric says with a smile.

“That’s the general consensus.” I wonder what it would even feel like to be taken seriously. But enough about me. A good Southern girl knows how to keep the conversation balanced. “How was the interview at Goldman Sachs?”

“Brilliant,” Eric crows. “I think I’m getting in. They’ll let me know in two weeks when they finalize the incoming trainee class.”

“Wow.” I wonder what that kind of confidence feels like.

And Eric in New York? I don’t know what to do with that idea.

Our steak—when it arrives—is delicious. I enjoy every bite and feel less bad about the world. The tasty Cabernet Sauvignon Eric ordered doesn’t hurt, either. “Your dad said that 2013 was a good year for California wines, and I’d have to say I agree,” he tells me.

I’m in a good enough mood to let another mention of Daddy go by without comment. And it’s not too hard to fall back into a rhythm with Eric. So long as I ask about his hockey teammates, we don’t run out of conversation.

“You must miss your sorority sisters,” Eric says at one point.

“I don’t. Not really.” College just wasn’t as fun as I’d hoped it would be. I was always trying to figure out how I fit in with the intellectual crusaders at Bryn Mawr. Even their parties were nerdy. The theme of the spring formal was “Kafkaesque.”

What’s a girl supposed to do with that?

“Why is the job better than school, though? I mean—driving the Zamboni looked fun, but…” Eric’s question peters out, because he really doesn’t understand me.

“It’s real work. I love the Bruisers organization. I want them to succeed. They’re underdogs. Last spring everybody was betting against them.” The way my daddy does with me.

He smiles at me like I’m a cute little kitten.

“And the Zamboni was fun. I’ll be better at it the next time. The steering is like a 70s Cadillac. Too much oversteer. It’s a smooth ride, though.”

He refills my wineglass as the dishes are cleared. “The players were timing you. Did you see who won?”

“Yep. Drake, the rookie. That’s just beginner’s luck, right? The rest of them picked times that were too long.”

“Not all of them.” Eric chuckles. “Somebody went over.”

“Over?”

“Yeah—they were playing it like on the Price Is Right—closest to the time without going over. Somebody had fourteen minutes and didn’t win the pool.”