“They are her favorite food,” Madeline explains. “I mentioned there was a player who liked them, too, and she was very excited to meet you.” “No way.” He shoves the rest of the bread in his mouth and wipes his hand on his shirt. “I’ve been waiting my whole life for someone to ask me about hot dog condiment preferences. Do I, uh, just write on the paper?” Ethan fumbles with the spiral notebook, opening it. I think his hands might be shaking. “Sorry. This feels really important, and I don’t want to fuck—sorry, mess up.”
