Chapter 9
NINE
I wish I could say our first weekend of friendship was more… something—
I don’t even know what, exactly. Just more.
We’ve spoken exactly six times in the last two days. Short, stiff exchanges that barely qualify as conversation.
Yesterday’s total word count was twelve.
“Morning.”
“No hockey today?”
And when I mentioned I had the day off but was leaving for a road trip tomorrow, all she said was, “First day in the studio for me, too.”
Maybe it’s for the best. Except it doesn’t feel that way. It feels like shit.
So, yeah. Words are sparse, and I’m greedy for more of them.
Not that I’ll get any. The team jet leaves for New York in two hours. Five days on the road. I should be thinking about hockey.
I’m not thinking about hockey.
I shove an extra pair of socks into my duffel bag. It’s the third “extra” I’ve added, but you can never have too many backups. The zipper rasps closed, and I glance at the clock on my nightstand. Time to go.
Out in the hall, I glance toward her bedroom. The door’s open, and I debate for all of two seconds before heading down there. The room’s empty, but I get a lungful of the citrus-sweet scent that’s been haunting me since Thursday night. I stop myself before I can breathe in any more of it.
Don’t make it weird.
In the kitchen, I set my duffel on one of the barstools, pour myself a coffee, and take a sip.
Damn, that’s good.
Same machine, same beans, same everything. I’ve made this exact coffee a thousand times. I check the packaging anyway. Nope, still the same. I take another sip and come up empty.
I need to get a grip.
Grace winds between my ankles, then trots toward the living room. I follow her, but stop short. Summer is cross-legged on the floor, back against the couch, headphones on. Her pen moves in slow loops across her notepad, hair falling forward so I can’t see her face.
She doesn’t notice me.
I should announce myself. Say something easy. Morning. Coffee’s good. Let her know she’s not alone.
Instead I stand there, utterly transfixed by the sight of her. She looks completely at home, and all I can think is: what the hell did I agree to?
She reaches up and tucks her hair behind her ear, and the morning light catches in the reddish-brown strands.
I take a sip of the world’s best cup of coffee.
She looks up.
“Oh.” Her pen stops. “Hey. Sorry, I didn’t see you there.”
“Don’t apologize.” I lift the mug. “This is good.”
“I just pressed the button.” But she looks pleased, a small smile that tilts a bit more to the left.
“Still.” I nod toward her notepad. “Sorry to interrupt.”
“You didn’t.” She closes it. “I’m just circling the same three words. Sometimes it helps to write them down anyway.”
“What are the three words?”
Grace stretches out at her side, tail swishing. Summer runs a hand down the cat’s back instead of answering, then looks up at me. “You’re leaving?”
“Yeah. Heading out.”
Her chin dips, and she surprises me by standing and crossing the room toward me.
She shocks me even more when she wraps her arms around my middle and squeezes tight. I freeze, breath catching. Her hair brushes against my chin, and I get another hit of her scent.
“I’m a hugger,” she mumbles, her cheek pressed to my chest.
It only takes me a second to recover, and I bring my arms around her. She feels small against me, despite the way she fills every room she’s in.
A protectiveness I usually reserve for my teammates stirs in my chest.
Grace interrupts with a loud complaint at our feet, offended by two whole minutes without attention.
Summer pulls away first, and it’s for the best. I’m not sure I would’ve been able to let go.
What flight? What four-game road trip? Me, captain?
She’s dangerous.
Summer bends to scoop her up and straightens with Grace tucked against her chest. The cat butts her nose against Summer’s jaw.
I enjoy the image of them together more than I should.
“Have good games,” she says, and my mouth tips up at her version of good luck. “And safe travels.”
“Are you gonna watch?”
“Probably not.” She gives a small, sheepish shrug.
Then her lips curve, and I forget what we were even talking about.
Right. My game.
I shift. “Most people would just lie and say they were.”
“Guess I’m not most people.” She smiles, this time fully.
No. No, she’s not.
“I like that.” My mouth bypasses my brain.
I reach out to scratch Grace’s head, careful not to let my knuckles graze Summer’s jaw.
“I wouldn’t even know how if I wanted to.” Whatever’s on my face must look like a question mark, because Summer clarifies, “Watch your game. What channel it’s on. I’m guessing your channels aren’t the same here as back home. What time and day? Is the time in this time zone or where you’re playing—”
My chuckle cuts through her ramble. “I’ll show you when I’m back, so you can decide if you want to watch the next one.”
“Sure. Yeah. Thanks.” She glances down at Grace.
“Are you nervous about your first day?” I ask, even though I should’ve left five minutes ago.
“Oh, heck. It’s obvious, isn’t it?” She sighs, each word a little dimmer.
“You’re gonna kill it.” I haven’t actually heard her sing, but I’d put money on her impressing the hell out of this guy.
“If you get stuck at the studio, or with plans, or whatever, don’t hesitate to call Tara about the cat,” I offer. Not like that’s the whole reason she’s here or anything.
“Miles, it’s literally my job to take care of Gracie,” she reminds me. “I’m going to take care of her. Don’t worry.”
“I know you will. It’s not… Yeah.” I clear my throat. “Yeah. Right.”
I scratch Grace’s head one more time, my fingers buried in her fur, as my gaze catches on Summer’s. “Text or call if you need anything, okay?”
“Yeah. I will.” She catches her bottom lip between her teeth.
It takes more restraint than I knew I had not to reach out and free it.
She goes back to the couch, and I grab my duffel and head for the door before I can say, or do, anything else I shouldn’t.
Friends.
Friends.
Friends.
Friends.