Chris works at the movie theater, which means he gets free tickets and even free popcorn sometimes. To me, it seems like the best job a guy could have, but he insists it’s not all glitz and glamour.

“The chunks of hotdog were the worst,” he’s saying to one of his co-workers as I walk up to him at the snack counter at the end of his shift.

“Hotdogs?” I ask.

“Hey.” He grins when he sees me. “Forget it. You don’t want to know.”

“Oh, but I do.”

Chris shakes his head. “No. You don’t. Little kid had a … reaction to some of the 3D effects.”

“Ew. Got it.” My gag reflex kicks in and I hold up my hand to keep him from divulging the details.

“You must be Lexi.” His coworker, a skinny guy with bushy black hair, leans forward on the counter, his eyebrows raised so high they disappear behind the hair. “I’ve heard a lot about you.” He grins at Chris, whose cheeks redden as he scowls and turns away.

I shrug and mumble something about not believing everything you hear. I should be used to it by now, but I’m always still surprised when kids from other schools know who I am. I’m also a little surprised to see it bother Chris—he’s usually my biggest cheerleader—but he’s been sensitive about basketball lately so maybe he’s tired of everyone fussing over me.

We order two large popcorns—because one can never have too much popcorn at the movies—and make our way in. It’s one of those theaters with huge reclining chairs that slide all the way out and back, with big trays and cup holders for our stuff. We settle into our seats well before the movie’s start time. Chris has seen most of these trailers a dozen times, but he still wants to watch each one. He says it’s all part of the movie-going experience.

“That one’s on the top of my list,” he whispers to me after an intense preview for a Russell Crowe flick. “We have to see that.”

“Definitely.” I sneak a peek at his profile, strong and beautiful in the glow of the screen. We’ve seen hundreds of movies together over the years, and his eyes still shine as brightly as when we were kids while he watches. Chris and I love the same kinds of movies. The more action, the better—gunfights, car chases, badass martial arts moves. We have a running joke where we always bet on the number of explosions we’ll see before the flick starts.

About halfway through the feature, as I’m losing myself in the X-Men’s exploits to save Earth from annihilation, a phone rings. It’s the guy next to me, and it’s super loud, with a ringtone that blares like a bullhorn. I jump in my seat. For real? Did he not see the four reminders to turn off his phone before the movie? Even worse, he answers it.

“Hello? Hey, man. How’s it hanging?” He’s not even whispering. It’s like he’s sitting at home watching Netflix and chatting with his bestie.

I look over at Chris in disbelief, but for some reason, he’s staring at his own phone. I take a deep breath and lean over. “Excuse me. Maybe you should take that outside.” I say it as sweetly as possible, but the guy gives me the finger and keeps talking. Whoa. I smell beer on his breath and realize he’s slurring his words. Before I can figure out how to respond, Chris is standing in front of him.

“Buddy, you need to hang up or leave. And you might want to apologize to my friend for disrespecting her.”

I’m not sure who’s more shocked—the guy or me. Chris has never been the type to pick a fight. In the seventh grade, a couple of boys made fun of a dorky hat he wore, and I swear he would have let them pick on him for weeks if I hadn’t stepped in one day and threatened to kick their butts.

Phone Dude tucks in his recliner and stands. Chris has about four inches on him, but the guy’s arms are massive, and a sinister snake tattoo curls out from under his shirt and up the back of his neck.

By now, everyone in the theater has forgotten the movie and is watching the live show playing out in Row H. Chris lifts his hands in the air in surrender mode but stands his ground. “I don’t want any trouble. I just want to let all these nice people enjoy their movie.”

The guy surveys the room. He wouldn’t do anything stupid in front of so many witnesses, would he? On the other hand, maybe now that he has an audience, he’ll decide to show off how tough he is.

He steps toward Chris and flexes his right hand, but before he can take a swing, three theater staff appear out of nowhere and surround him. “Show’s over, man,” says one of Chris’s managers. “Let’s go.”

The guy scowls, but he backs off, grabs his coat, and stalks out. He knocks over some poor lady’s soda on his way down the steps, and the manager rushes over to assure her they’ll replace it.

The audience breaks out in cheers, and the kid on the other side of Chris gives him a fist bump as he sits down.

“Holy crap,” I say as we push back our seats. “I can’t believe you took that dude on. He was a beast.”

Chris shrugs and shows me his phone—an SOS text to his manager. “I knew Tony and those guys would show up pretty quick. Also, I had no idea how big the guy was until he stood up.”

I start to take a sip of my soda, but Chris leans over and grabs my cup to stop me. “Hey.” His voice is soft. “Sorry I didn’t get the apology out of him.”

My mouth goes dry as his hand covers mine, and I have to force myself not to stare at his lips. “You did great. Seriously.”

The rest of the movie rolls by in a blur. I’ve never been the damsel-in-distress type, but that was freaking hot. As far as I’m concerned, the X-Men have nothing on Chris Broder.