Chapter 4
FOUR
JULIAN
"You've been fidgety for days." Marshall dropped onto my couch. "We're going out."
"I'm okay."
"You watched dog training videos for four hours yesterday on your day off." He raised an eyebrow. "That's not okay, that's avoidance."
I slammed the lid down on my laptop. "I was doing research for work."
"You've been a dog walker for three years. What could you possibly need to research?"
The truth was, I'd been trying to figure out what I'd done wrong. Renard had looked at me in that park like I mattered, then walked away without a word. It didn't make sense. Usually I could read people, but Renard was a locked door, and I couldn't find the key.
"The Storm has a home game tonight," Marshall continued. "Let's go."
Shoot, no I couldn’t. "Why would we go to a hockey game?"
"Because it's Friday night, you need to get out of this apartment, and tickets are cheap if we don't mind sitting in the nosebleeds." He pulled out his phone. "I'm buying them right now. Say yes or I'm telling Rita you've been timing your park routes to run into goalies."
"That's blackmail."
"It's friendship. Now say yes."
I should have stayed home with my laptop and my dignity intact. Instead, I heard myself say, "Okay. But we're leaving right after."
Marshall grinned. "Deal."
Two hours later, we were wedged into seats so high up I was surprised we didn't need oxygen masks.
The arena was packed and the crowd was buzzing with anticipation.
I'd been to games before, mostly as a kid, but never really paid attention beyond the basic rules. But since watching videos of Renard, I’d picked up a few things.
Tonight, I couldn't stop watching the goalies, specifically, one goalie.
Renard was easy to spot even from this distance and I couldn’t keep my eyes off him during warm-ups. The pads made him look massive, but I could still see the athlete underneath. His stretches were deliberate and he monitored every practice shot.
"That's him, right?" Marshall elbowed me. "Your park guy?"
"He's not mine."
"Sure. That's why you haven't looked away once since warm-ups started."
The game began, and I tried to take in the speed of the play, the crowd noise and the players moving across the ice. But my attention kept drifting back to the net and to Renard.
But something was wrong. I didn't know enough about hockey to articulate what exactly, but Renard seemed off. He was moving differently than in the highlights I'd watched and his positioning was wrong. In the first period, he let in a goal on a shot that even I could tell he should have stopped.
The crowd groaned.
"Rough night for the goalie," Marshall observed.
By the second period, it was worse. Another goal slipped past Renard, and the booing started. It wasn’t overwhelming, but enough to make me wince. I wanted to stand up and tell everyone to shut up, that he was having a bad night and deserved better than this.
But that was bonkers. We'd had a couple of brief conversations. I had no right to feel this protective.
"Maybe we should go," I said.
"It's only the second period."
"I know, but watching this feels wrong as if I'm intruding on something private."
Marshall gave me a look but said we were staying.
In the third period, the coach pulled Renard from the game. I watched him skate to the bench. His shoulders were rigid as the backup goalie took his place.
Final score: 4-2. It was a loss, but not the disaster it could have been.
"Well, that was depressing." Marshall was in front of me as we filed out with the crowd. "Let's get a drink."
"You said we'd go straight home."
"One drink isn't a bar crawl." He was already steering us toward the exit. "There's a place right near here. The Penalty Box. Everyone goes there after games."
"Marshall—"
"One drink. Then we'll go home and you can resume your sulking in peace."
The Penalty Box was exactly what its name suggested: a sports bar packed with people in Storm jerseys. We found space at the bar, and Marshall ordered us both beers.
I was halfway through mine, listening to Marshall complain about his coworker, when people stilled and the energy became charged. Several players had come in and they were immediately swarmed by fans wanting photos.
"Should we ask for autographs?" Marshall was already pulling out his phone.
"Absolutely not."
"Come on, it'll be—"
He stopped mid-sentence and I followed his gaze to the door.
Renard stood at the entrance, glowering at the crowd. He scanned the room as if he was looking for an escape route. His hair was curling at the ends, and from across the bar I noted the exhaustion in his face.
Our eyes met and I swear the noise around us faded. He stared at me with an intensity that made me squirm and my legs turn to jelly. I gasped, trying to get enough air in my lungs. But someone bumped into him, breaking the moment and Renard headed toward his teammates.
"Holy shit," Marshall said. "Did you see that?"
"He probably didn't even recognize me."
"Are you kidding? That was the most intense eye contact I've ever witnessed."
I took another sip of my beer, trying to slow my breathing. My hands were shaking.
"I need to use the bathroom," I put down the beer.
The hallway to the restrooms was quieter and away from the main crowd. I splashed cold water on my face, staring at my reflection. What was I doing here? Renard had made it clear he wasn't interested. He’d walked away and hadn’t acknowledged me. I needed to accept that and move on.
When I came out of the bathroom, Renard was in the hallway. The space was made narrower by someone trying to squeeze past us toward the restrooms. Renard moved closer to me to let them by, and suddenly there were only inches between us.
"Julian." My name sounded different in his voice.
"Hi." My heart was pounding so hard I was sure he could hear it. "Sorry about the loss."
"Yeah." He didn't move back even though the person had passed. "Rough game."
Up close, he was taller than I'd realized. The jacket stretched across his shoulders, and the top two shirt buttons were undone. His eyes were bloodshot, whether from exhaustion or emotion I couldn't tell.
"I'm sure the next one will be better," I said.
"Maybe."
The conversation was going nowhere, but neither of us moved. His eyes were locked on mine and I was finding it hard to breathe. I could smell his soap or body wash mixed with something else underneath. The combination was making my head spin and my pulse race.
"Are you okay?" The question slipped out.
"I don't know." His voice was barely above a whisper.
Someone shrieked in the main room, making me jump. Renard steadied me and heat rippled over my body. I couldn’t speak or move and the noise from the bar became background static.
His gaze dropped to my mouth. Was he going to kiss me here in this narrow hallway with a sports bar full of people twenty feet away? I wanted to close the distance between us and find out if he'd kiss me back or push me away.
Renard leaned in just a fraction. He was close enough that I could feel his breath. All I'd have to do was tilt my head up and—
"Conley!" A voice boomed from the end of the hallway. "There you are!"
Renard jerked back like he'd been burned. A teammate appeared and clapped him on the shoulder.
"Come on, man. Stephen is throwing a thing at his place and everyone's going." The guy looked at me, then back at Renard with a knowing grin. "Unless you're busy?"
"No." Renard's monotone voice matched my plummeting mood. "Not busy."
The teammate started steering him away. Renard glanced back at me before he was swallowed by the crowd.
I tried to process what had just happened. Or what had almost happened. My arm was tingly where he'd touched it and my heart was still racing.
Marshall found me a few minutes later. "You’re flushed."
"Can we go?"
"Sure. Let me close out the tab."
On the drive home, I stared out the window. The city lights blurred together as Marshall navigated the streets.
"You're not listening to anything I'm saying," Marshall finally said.
"Sorry."
"Did something happen? You disappeared for a while."
"I ran into Renard in the hallway."
"And?"
"His teammate dragged him off to some party."
Marshall glanced around. "But something almost happened."
He knew me too well.
"I don't know. Maybe? We were just standing there and he was looking at me, and I thought..." I shook my head. "It doesn't matter. Nothing happened."
"But you wanted it to."
At home, I went through the motions of getting ready for bed.
After brushing my teeth and changing into sweats, I checked that my alarm was set for tomorrow's early shift.
But I couldn't stop circling back to that moment in the hallway. The way Renard looked at me had made everything else fade. Aand we’d been so close, I could smell his peppermint breath.
That split second where I'd thought he might actually kiss me would stay with me forever.
And then nothing followed by an awkward interruption and him walking away again.
I pulled out my phone and opened the team's schedule before I could change my mind. The next home game was Tuesday.
I was a glutton for punishment reading too much into a moment of proximity in a crowded bar. He probably hadn't been about to kiss me at all. But I was convinced he had been. He'd wanted to close that distance between us as much as I had but something was stopping him. I just didn't know what.
I set my phone on the nightstand and stared at the ceiling. I had until Tuesday when I had to decide if I was going to put myself out there again. I needed to find out what kept pulling us together, even as Renard kept walking away.