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“No, I just block pucks naked and hope for the best.”
“You look twelve, or something.” “And you look like someone who breaks kneecaps for the mafia,” he retorts. He almost gets me on that one—I can feel my mouth try to smile but bite it back. “Less talking, more packing.”
I want to eat, shower, and listen to Zeke talk about nerdy shit—preferably in that order. “Yeah, I guess I can.”
But then, he reaches a hand across the center console and rests it on my knee, squeezing gently.
“Sorry, I know what you do, or who you do it with, is none of my business. I didn’t mean to get carried away. I just wanted to make sure you’re all right, that’s all.”
“If you wanted obedience, you should have gotten a dog.” I snort, and then hastily cover it with a cough.
