Page 14

“Oh, ya never heard ‘bout boat?” And then he launches excitedly into a detailed tirade about how it’s made.

“It’s wonderful stuff. WONDERFUL.” Yes, he shouts this.

“What ya do is ya take all yer cleaning supplies—drano, ajax, 409—and pour all that good shit in yer bathtub. Let it sit for about two weeks.” His hands come up and he shakes his head.

“All right, all right, so when it’s dry, ya scrape it up with a spatula into a baking dish.

Then ya stick it in the oven. Twelve hours, four hundred degrees.

When it’s done, ya smoke it. But ya can only do boat once. ”

I’m not sure if I should laugh or be concerned people are out here snorting cleaning supplies. Is that normal? No. But I’m still curious.

“Why only once?” I have no idea why I’m still talking to this guy.

He points in my face, inches from my nose, and locks his wild eyes on mine. I swallow hard. His eyes narrow, and he leans in closer. If that’s possible. “Ya do it twice… yer die.”

I stare at him in silence.

Jaxon does too.

We both blink as the bus stops near Pioneer Square, and that crazy bastard gets off almost immediately.

Jaxon turns to me, arm still around my shoulders, eyes wide. “That’s wild as fuck.”

I lean closer, loving that even though the guy’s gone, Jaxon’s still holding me. “You think he actually smoked that?”

Jaxon watches the street as the guy disappears. “Oh, I’m positive he smoked it.”

As promised, Jaxon sticks to his word and takes me to dinner.

We land at Lil Woody’s on Pine, right in the middle of downtown Seattle on Capitol Hill, where it feels like the whole city is buzzing on a Friday night.

It sits right on the edge of the chaos, where Pine runs thick with foot traffic, late-night wanderers, and the constant hum of Seattle energy.

There’s a line snaking out the door, people laughing under the glow of neon lights, taxis honking in the distance, and that humid, salty breeze drifting in from the Sound.

Inside, you get a classic Seattle burger joint feel: not much space, but every inch used—small tables, and a counter where you order straight from the chalkboard menu.

The walls are cluttered with local art and little nods to Seattle pop culture.

It’s loud, always, with music bumping in the background and voices echoing off the tile.

We both order the same thing—the Fig and Pig burger, because once you’ve tasted caramelized onions, apple slices, fig jam, and bacon stacked together, you don’t mess with the formula.

Jaxon adds a basket of their “crack” fries to the order— fries you dip in soft-serve ice cream, which sounds insane until you try it.

If you haven’t yet, you’re missing out. It’s the kind of late-night food that makes your whole week better.

We squeeze upstairs where they have larger picnic tables in a loft, elbows practically touching the strangers next to us.

Everyone’s talking over each other—students from Seattle U, techies in Patagonia fleeces, a couple on a first date sharing a milkshake.

Jaxon’s uncle lives just a mile away in one of those glassy condos with a view of the water, but he swears the real magic happens down here, in the mess and noise.

“My parents met here,” Jaxon says, gesturing around at the crowd jammed shoulder to shoulder in the little loft, everyone with ketchup on their fingers and stories in their eyes.

“Oh?” I dip a fry into the chocolate ice cream, suck the ice cream off—suggestively, of course—and then eat the fry. “Like actually?”

“Yeah.” Jaxon’s eyes are on my mouth and I can tell he’s definitely not thinking about food. “Well, my dad says they met at a bar on Christmas Eve, but then came here that night and… well, you know.”

My cheeks warm thinking about his parents hooking up. His dad is basically if AI generated the “hottest dad ever,” and his mom looks like she walked out of a magazine. Their daughter Emerson is basically real-life Moana.

“Oh damn,” I finally say, thankful his parents did hook up that night because hello, Jaxon Ryan came soon after. “So that’s how the Ryan family got started.”

Jaxon chuckles. “Yeah.”

I don’t think I’ve said much about my past with Jaxon. I should probably catch you up. Here’s your history lesson, so pay attention.

We started dating at the end of middle school, stayed together until last year, and then everything went sideways. Now we're stuck in this weird limbo of what-are-we and why-can't-we-move-on.

My family moved here from Tennessee when my dad transferred to a Seattle fire station, right before Christmas break in seventh grade.

Turns out our dads worked together—which we didn’t know at first. His dad comes from a long line of firefighters, which made it kind of surprising when Jaxon chose baseball instead.

My mom flips historical homes in Seattle—buys them, makes them gorgeous, sells them for a profit.

Jaxon’s mom owns Wellington Suites, one of those fancy hotels downtown.

Growing up, we basically lived on Seattle’s streets and baseball fields.

Both of us played through middle and high school, plus travel teams. Our dates usually meant watching each other's games, falling asleep on FaceTime, chillin at the fire station with our dads, or mooching free food at his mom’s hotel.

Those were my favorite memories of Jaxon and me. Before all the drama and pressure.

Now there’s this loaded silence between us while we eat. I should ask about Inez—I want to—but watching his lips wrap around his milkshake straw, I decide ignorance is bliss. Delulu land is nice this time of year.

I ask about baseball to keep the conversation away from her.

“How’s the team this year? You leave for Texas on Thursday, right?”

“Yeah, I do.” His eyes find mine. “Your next game is a home one, right?”

I nod, grinning. He knows my schedule. “Mhm.”

Jaxon matches my smile, and I tell myself his smirk isn’t about us still keeping tabs on each other. “Boys are solid so far. Did okay in Long Beach.” He shrugs. “Went two and two, but you know how it goes with better competition.”

“Yeah. It sure does.”

“Got this freshman shortstop from Boston, Ollie. Kingston’s already got beef with him,” he adds, hunting for the extra-crispy fries he loves. “But kid’s decent.”

“Kingston having beef with someone? Shocking.”

Jaxon laughs. “Right?”

I watch his hands, the way his veins pop when his fingers move. Those damn hand veins get me every time. Suddenly I’m thinking about those hands on me… No. Stop.

I blow out a breath, glancing up at him before looking away. Doesn’t help. My mind’s already there. “We don’t have any freshman pitchers, but Coach Drew mentioned a possible transfer. Not sure yet.”

“Oh, yeah.” He chews a fry and shrugs. “You might.”

“Yeah. There always seems to be a few that transfer mid-season.”

Jaxon nods, eyeing his burger. “Wild how we’ll be on the road every week for the next few months.”

“For real. Definitely not high school anymore.”

The college athlete life is no joke. Crack-of-dawn lifts, classes, practice, travel, media days, games, after-game press—there’s zero time for anything else. Last season, some weeks Jaxon and I only saw each other through a phone screen. In season, we’re gone for weeks depending on the schedule.

“Not gonna lie,” Jaxon leans back and smirks. “I miss high school.”

I smile. “Me too.”

I could read into it and think he misses me, or us, or whatever, but I won’t let myself.

Remember: no feelings.

“Jameson said you and him are helping some little league players. That’s fun.”

Jaxon blinks, his forehead creasing. “You talked to Jameson?”

Shit. Did I piss him off?

His tone shifts, and I analyze it like a pitch. The inflection says concerned, but his face reads indifferent.

“Yeah, we’ve got Survey of Human Anatomy together.”

“Oh. Right.” His eyes drop to our fries. “Yeah, we’re helping some kids. Community service thing.”

His expression shifts—confused? No, not that. Maybe… jealousy? No way.

Jaxon blows out a breath. “So.” He pushes the empty basket away. “I need to go feed Kellan’s dog.”

I smile. “He’s probably demolished half his condo by now.”

He stands, grabbing our trash. “He keeps him in a cage. For good reason.”

“No doubt.” I stand too, trying not to notice how good Jaxon smells as he walks past to toss our trash.

We walk up the street to Kellan’s condo in silence. Being next to him, knowing we’ll be alone in Kellan’s place, feels dangerous. Like playing with matches near gasoline.

The elevator ride up is torture. Jaxon leans against the back wall, arms crossed. I try hard not to stare at his biceps stretching his T-shirt, or how his sweat pants reveal the outline of his…

The elevator dings.

Thank God, because my mind was definitely heading there.

“Damn.” I whistle as we walk in. “This place is hella nice. Are you sure Kellan’s a cop?”

“That I know of,” Jaxon says, chuckling as he lets Kellan’s dog out of his crate. “Pretty sure he’s a detective now. They make decent money, I guess.”

“Yeah, probably.”

I watch Jaxon open the crate, and Bear rockets into his chest like a furry missile. Jaxon topples backward with an “oof,” suddenly flat on his back with an overexcited chocolate Lab dancing above him.

“Missed ya too, buddy.” Jaxon laughs, scratching Bear’s ears as he pushes himself up. Those blue eyes of Bear’s—unusual for his breed—are practically glowing, tongue lolling in that goofy dog way.

I can’t help but smile, remembering our summer runs with Bear. We used to take him, and one time he got so excited he yanked me into the lake. The memory’s fresh, even if Bear probably doesn’t remember me as anything more than a new friend to knock over.