Chapter 2
SARAH
As it turns out, I end up sitting with both of the Williamson twins at dinner, though not intentionally.
We’re eating buffet style, everyone filling up their plates and grabbing a seat wherever they can.
Some people are in the living room, plates perched on their knees.
Others are eating around the bar in the kitchen.
I sit down at the dining room table while it’s still empty, but Miles and Anna quickly join me, followed by Theo, Carter, Holly, and two other guys Miles introduces as Jordo and Fly.
Holly pulls up an additional chair for Charlie, who has taken off her goalie pads but still wears her wings, and Miles has his youngest daughter, Olive, sitting on his lap.
“Jordan Ewbanks,” Carter says from beside me, “and Sebastian Cash. I know the nicknames can be tough to keep up with.”
I look over at him and smile. I’m used to Miles using nicknames for some of his teammates, but I always get overwhelmed when I meet a lot of new people, so having the extra help feels good.
I shift my gaze away, suddenly realizing I’m staring at Carter’s intense blue eyes.
“Thanks,” I say as I scoop up a bite of my potato salad.
“It’s definitely hard to keep up with who’s who. ”
“Jordan is a center,” Carter says. “Engaged to the woman over at the bar with the short, dark hair. Her name is Malia. Jordo is obviously short for Jordan.”
“Got it,” I say. “Jordan, Malia. And the other is Sebastian, but you call him Fly?”
“He’s fast,” Carter says. “That’s why.”
“I’ll never understand Miles’s nickname,” I say. “Why call him Brick when his last name is literally Stone? Don’t they basically mean the same thing?”
Carter tilts his head. “That’s…a very good question. He had the nickname when I joined the team, so I haven’t really ever thought about it.”
“Do you ever call him Miles?”
“Sure,” he says. “Brick is what I call him when we’re on the ice or in the locker room. But if I’m calling his name when I’m standing in his kitchen, I’ll probably call him Miles.”
I like this answer, but I can’t exactly pinpoint why. Maybe because my brother isn’t just a brick wall of a hockey player, so I appreciate when people see him as more.
“What about you? Do you have a nickname?” I ask.
He’s quiet for a beat before he says, “Just Carter. Or…Cars.” Something about his tone draws my gaze to his.
He almost sounds like he’s disappointed to not have a nickname, though I could be completely off base.
I don’t know him well enough to truly tell.
“The team calls my brother Sonny,” he says.
“Short for Williamson. Actually, did you meet Theo?”
“Not officially.” I look past Carter to where Theo is sitting on his other side.
This close, they look less alike than they did when I was looking at Theo from across the room.
They’re clearly identical, but there’s something about Carter’s eyes that makes it easy for me to tell them apart.
There’s a kindness there—a warmth that feels distinct.
“Theo, Sarah. Sarah, Theo,” Carter says, doing a quick round of introductions.
“Nice to meet you,” Theo says, offering me a handshake, but he quickly falls into conversation with the teammate sitting to his right. Sebastian, I think?
I’m never going to remember everyone’s names.
“So how long will you be in Atlanta?” Carter asks. “Is this home for good?”
The sadness that seems to have taken up permanent residence at the back of my mind flits back to the surface. “Unfortunately, no,” I say. “I was here for school, and since I graduated, I have to go back to Canada in a few months.”
“You don’t seem thrilled about that.”
“There are definitely things I miss about Winnipeg, but it hasn’t really felt like home in a long time. Miles and Anna—they’re pretty much my only family. So…yeah. Leaving is going to be really hard.”
“You can’t get a work visa?” Carter asks. “Sorry. That’s probably a dumb question. I’m sure you’ve explored all your options.”
“Not a dumb question,” I say. “But yeah. If I were a nurse or a teacher or worked in STEM, I’d have more options. But it’s a little more complicated for artists. There’s a visa designed for those with extraordinary talent, but that means you basically have to be a superstar.”
“Wait. Are you talking about an O-1 visa? A few of my teammates over the years have had those.”
“Exactly that,” I say. “They aren’t impossible for artists, but I haven’t built that kind of career yet.”
And now I’m out of time.
After my graduation, I managed to extend my student visa for what my immigration lawyer referred to as “optional practical training.” It meant working as an artist-in-residence for a community arts center in Savannah, but it was mostly about buying me an extra twelve months to build the relationships I need if I want to stay in the States.
And I’m definitely getting closer. I’ve had a few smaller galleries express interest in my work, and I’ve sold enough to support myself, something I know a lot of artists can’t say. But I need to go bigger, establish a presence in New York, possibly find an agent.
There’s no way I’ll manage all of that in the three months I have to work with.
“You haven’t built it yet,” Carter says. “But I’m sure you’ll get there.” He smiles, and a tiny dimple appears in his right cheek. The second it disappears, I feel an impulsive need to say something clever just so I can see it again.
“He says, having never seen my work,” I say.
“Show me then.” He takes a bite of his burger, his nonchalance making it seem like he didn’t just make a monumental request.
“It’s not like asking to see a picture of my dog,” I say. “Showing you my work—that’s a big deal.”
“Is it? Couldn’t I just google you?”
I bite my lip. Of course he could google me. I wouldn’t be very serious about my work if I didn’t have a website. Or at least an Instagram profile. But asking someone to google me is very different than finding out someone already did.
It’s like that strange feeling when you give someone a gift and they ask if they can open it right then, while you watch. I mean, sure. Open it now. But it’s also totally fine if you want to wait until I’m gone so I never, ever have to deal with the possibility of you hating it.
What’s more, I feel weirdly concerned about what Carter will think of my work. I really, really want him to like it, which makes zero sense since I literally just met the man.
But it’s too late to protest because he’s already pulling out his phone. His thumbs fly across the screen, then he holds it up.
“This one?” he asks, pointing to the top search result. “This is you?”
I nod. “Yeah. That’s it.”
He hesitates, then he catches my gaze, his expression softening as he asks, “Can I click? I won’t if you don’t want me to.”
His words are so sincere, I’m positive he would put his phone down and never pull up the website again if I asked him not to.
Which is exactly why I tell him he can.
“You can click,” I say. “Just…don’t tell me if you don’t like something.”
He lifts his eyebrows. “Do people actually do that?”
I grimace. “The internet is a very cruel place.”
A look of understanding passes over his face. “True enough,” he says. With such a public career, he probably gets it better than most.
I sit and wait while Carter scrolls through my portfolio, his eyes locked on his screen.
My website portfolio currently includes the collection of work I completed for my master’s degree.
I mostly paint people, hyperrealism blended with poetic abstraction.
A lot of people find it fascinating to see paintings that look like they could be photographs, but that’s not the most important part for me.
It’s more about the parts that aren’t realistic. That’s where the storytelling is.
Carter takes his time scrolling through, which makes me nervous. But I at least appreciate the chance it gives me to study him up close, to take in the angle of his jaw, the insanely long lashes that frame his bright blue eyes.
At one point, I glance over Carter’s shoulder to see Theo studying me, a questioning look on his face, but the second we make eye contact, he looks away.
Finally, Carter looks up. “Sarah,” he says, and my heart jumps at the sound of my name. “These are…” He shakes his head and lets out a little laugh, like he can’t quite find the words. “They’re incredible,” he continues. “I can’t think of anything that deserves the word extraordinary more.”
Warmth sparks in my chest and spreads outward, climbing up to my cheeks. I lift my hands to cover the redness I’m sure he can see on my face. “You really think so?”
He nods. “I wouldn’t lie to you.”
“You would too,” I say. “You’re too nice to say something mean.”
“She’s got you there, man,” Theo says, startling me when he joins the conversation. For a moment, it felt like Carter and I were the only ones in the room. “You are too nice.”
Carter gives his brother an annoyed look. “But just because I wouldn’t say something unkind doesn’t mean I’m lying now. I’d maybe just say something…less nice.”
“Like when you told the poor kid at our last youth hockey clinic that he skated with a lot of heart,” Theo says.
“He did skate with a lot of heart,” Carter says.
“And that was about all he had going for him,” Theo replies. “I’m just saying, it’s a good thing you were giving him feedback instead of me. I’d have told him to find a different hobby.”
“He was twelve,” Carter says. “If every twelve-year-old who isn’t bound for the NHL gave up hockey, the entire sport would fall apart.”
It’s fun to watch the brothers banter and interesting to notice what makes them distinct. Carter’s entire demeanor is gentler than Theo’s. He’s a little more measured, a little more intentional with his words.