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We slide into a red vinyl booth and Kira immediately opens the menu with a dramatic sigh. "This is already the best night of my life."

The waitress, probably in her sixties and wearing cat-eye glasses, appears with a notepad. "Drinks, kids?"

"Sangria for me," Kira chirps.

"Same," I say.

Nate leans back. "Do you do draft beer or are we talking bottled nostalgia?"

"Draft," the waitress replies, unimpressed.

"Beautiful. Surprise me."

She nods and disappears. Kira leans over the table. "Okay, question: worst date you’ve ever had. Go."

Nate raises an eyebrow. "You first."

"Fine. I once got set up with a guy who showed up twenty minutes late wearing a fedora, told me he didn’t believe in utensils, and then ate sushi with his hands."

I nearly choke on air. "Please tell me you're kidding."

"I wish. He said chopsticks were a colonial conspiracy."

Nate snorts into his water. "That man is unhinged."

"Wait, it gets better. Halfway through, he took off the fedora and said, 'I feel like you haven’t seen the real me.' And underneath was... a second fedora."

I actually slap the table, wheezing. "A nested fedora?!"

"It was like a magic trick gone terribly wrong…hat after hat, each one worse than the last."

The drinks arrive and Nate lifts his glass. "To double hats and zero shame."

Kira turns to Nate. "Okay, your turn. Locker room superstition. Don’t pretend you don't have one."

He sips his beer. "Fine. I wear the same socks on game day."

"Like... same pair?"

"Same exact pair. Washed, obviously. But yeah. I've had them since juniors."

"You mean to tell me the fate of Detroit's defense depends on a pair of ancient socks?"

"Don't disrespect the socks. They've seen things."

I giggle into my drink. "I suddenly feel unsafe."

"You get on the ice with guys who haven’t changed their laces since 2015 and tell me who the real risk-takers are."

Kira mock-gasps. "Hockey players: emotionally stunted golden retrievers with superstitions and laundry skills."

I snort soda straight out my nose.

Nate calmly passes me a napkin. "She’s not wrong."

I dab my face, laughing too hard to care. "You're really just a bunch of muscled-up toddlers."

"With better balance," he says. "Most days."