He leans back in his chair, draping his arm over the back. “So, what’ll it be?” “Islanders,” I say. “Isn’t Mat Barzal so dreamy?” I know it’s wrong; I noticed the Rangers sticker on his truck. But it’s too fun not to tease, especially when he drags me into his lap—and then over his shoulder, like he’s hauling a sack of flour.
