Chapter 12
TWELVE
Me:
Good luck tonight!
Miles:
We’re 2 for 2, Starling. Talk when I get back to the hotel?
Fri, Dec 19 at 6:38 p.m.
Me:
We gonna make the record 3 for 3?
Miles:
Fuck, yeah, we did!
Call you in a minute. My battery is almost dead
Still not charging it overnight like a normal person?
I am who I am
Sun, Dec 21 at 5:25 p.m.
Me:
Good luck
Miles:
Back at the hotel. Call you in ten
I dive across the couch cushions as soon as my phone rings.
“Hey.” His voice is rougher than usual. Tired, probably, after four games on the road.
I pull my knees up. “Maybe I am your good luck charm after all. You won again.”
There’s a pause before he says, “You watched?”
“Most of it.” Closer to all of it. “Mia walked me through the parts I didn’t understand.”
He chuckles, but it fades into something quieter. “I didn’t know you were watching.”
“I wanted to see what all the fuss was about.” I pick at a loose thread on the throw blanket.
“And?”
“I see the appeal.” The appeal being watching Miles glide across the ice, slam other men against the boards, and be generally very hot.
He clears his throat. He’s been doing it all week. I’m starting to think it’s a nervous tic.
“Are you getting sick?” I ask.
“What—no.”
“You keep doing—” I mimic the sound.
He huffs a breathy laugh. “Way to call me out, Starling.”
“Sorry.” My lips tip up.
“It’s fine.” Another almost-clearing, but he catches himself. “How was the studio?”
I… have no idea. I can’t tell whether I’m growing on Boone or if he just tolerates me because someone’s paying him to. This morning, he listened to my latest attempt, grunted “better,” and moved on before I could figure out if that was praise or pity. I’m choosing to believe it was the former.
“Could’ve been worse,” I mutter.
“That bad?”
The loose thread comes free, and I set it on the coffee table. “I won’t bore you with the details.”
“I like hearing about your day.”
I press my lips together. “It’s not how I expected it to be. I mean, I clearly had some rose-colored glasses on, but… I feel like I’m letting him down.” Myself, too. And that part is worse.
A bed squeaks through the line, followed by Miles’s exhaled breath.
“When I first got called up to the NHL from the farm team… calling it rough would be putting it mildly. My first dozen games, I maybe played eight minutes per game. That’s terrible, by the way.
In my debut game, I put the puck in my own net.
“My point is, give yourself some grace. Doing new things is hard, and you’re already leagues ahead of everyone who’s too scared to even try. You’re going to get it, and this week is going to be a funny story to tell your—” He cuts himself off. “To tell someday.”
I swallow and nod. “Yeah.”
We talk for another hour. At some point I end up sprawled across the couch, legs kicked up along the back cushions. The phone is on the throw pillow near my ear, and both our voices grow soft as it gets later.
Still, it’s hard to say, “See you in the morning?”
“Yeah, see you soon.”
The coffee maker gurgles its final drops, and I realize I’ve been staring at the cabinet for a full minute.
It’s been a long week. My first full week in the studio with Boone, and God, I needed a day off. How can seven days feel so freakin’ long?
I hit call, and two rings later, my mom sings, “My favorite daughter,” too bright and too awake for a Monday morning.
“Only daughter,” I shoot back. “How’re you?”
She launches into her day: my dad’s terrible joke, the dessert that got overbaked, the neighbor who showed up with something wrapped in three layers of tape. I have questions about that last one, but she doesn’t pause long enough for me to ask.
I open the cabinet and take out one of Miles’s identical mugs. They’re lined up perfectly, handles facing the same direction. I grab the one on the end and turn another backward.
“What’re you doing for Christmas?” Her voice softens in the way it does when she’s worried but doesn’t want to say so. “We’re gonna miss you.”
“I’ll miss you, too.” I try not to think about my first holiday away from them. Every time I do, a lump forms in my throat that I can’t quite swallow. “But don’t worry about me. Miles invited me to Christmas dinner at his teammate’s place.”
“That sounds lovely.” I picture her pacing the kitchen. “How’s your new guy treating you?”
“Ma, he’s not my guy.” I roll my eyes, but my lips curve. My mama’s always trying to play matchmaker.
“He is awfully handsome. Your dad looked him up.”
Of course he did.
“You could always give him a chance,” she adds. “It’s been so long since you’ve brought someone home.”
I try to think of who that even was. “John Boyd? My prom date?”
She hums her confirmation.
“I’m not sure that counts. And I have given chances, plenty of them.” I set my mug down, then pick it back up.
“Darlin’, c’mon. You leave broken hearts in your wake.”
“How did we get talkin’ about my love life?” My twang thickens before I can stop it.
A pot clinks, followed by a soft “shoot” under her breath. “One sec.”
I carry my coffee to the window seat in the front room.
“Did you get the deposit?” I ask when she comes back.
She pauses. “Yes, and before you start—”
“Mama—”
“Summer.” She says my name in that way only mothers do. “We’re okay.”
“I know.” My voice drops. “I just want to make sure you’re taken care of.”
“You always have, but you don’t need to. Your brother isn’t completely useless, you know.” There’s laughter in her voice. “Although last week Jordan tried to fix the garbage disposal and nearly took out the whole sink.”
I snort. “He should stick to cars.”
“He should.” Then softer: “We can handle things, I promise.”
I stare into my mug.
She’s talking about now. My brain’s stuck on then—the years when bills got paid, but barely.
When she worked doubles and still made dinner feel normal, still made the lights feel guaranteed.
I know she means it. She said the same thing back then, and I pretended to believe her so she wouldn’t have to carry my worry on top of her own.
“You worry about your music. Don’t worry about us.”
“I want this to work,” I admit. Not only because I want it, but because if it works, it changes things for everyone.
“And I want that for you. But you know what I want more?” She doesn’t wait for an answer. “I just want you happy. That’s it. That’s the whole list.”
My throat tightens. I take a long sip of coffee.
Someone calls her name in the background.
“I’ve got to go,” she says. “Call me later. And stop worrying about us. I mean it.”
“I’ll try.”
“Try harder.” There’s a smile in her voice. “Love you.”
“Love you, too. Tell Dad I said hi. Don’t forget this time.”
I tuck my feet up on the window seat and cup my mug in both hands, the warmth seeping through. I’ve got a perfect view of the driveway from here. I tell myself that’s not why I picked the spot.
Not even five minutes later, a black Mercedes G-Wagon turns into the driveway.
Miles.
My stomach pinches, like it’s done all week, whenever his name lit up my phone.
He parks quickly, not his usual careful alignment, perpendicular to the garage. He stares at my truck for a long moment, like he’s not sure he can trust I’m home, before cutting the engine.
Then he’s moving. Duffel grabbed, door shouldered closed, jogging toward the house.
The front door opens and shuts.
“Summer?”
I set my coffee down. “In here.”
His footsteps hurry across the hardwood. Then he’s in the doorway, bag still on his shoulder, hair messy, glasses fogged.
We stare at each other. The corner of his mouth lifts. “You’re here.”
“Day off. Monday, remember?”
“Right. I barely know what day it is.” He drops his bag just inside the door and shoves his hands in his pockets. “It’s good to be home.” He says it quietly, almost to himself.
Gracie trots in, voicing her approval.
He picks her up, scratching under her chin as she sniffs his cheek. He tips his head toward my mug. “Is there more where that came from?”
“Yeah, I just made a pot.” I uncurl from the window seat, my socks sliding on the floor. “Rough flight?”
“Couldn’t sleep last night.”
Yeah. Me neither.
He heads for the kitchen, and I follow.
This should be easier. We’ve talked every night. But in person, he’s taller, closer, and my brain keeps short-circuiting over stupid things. The veins in his hands. The serious line of his brows.
I perch on a stool at the island as Miles opens the cabinet. He pauses, eyes locked on the cup I turned backward, then darts a look over his shoulder at me. I wait for him to fix it. He doesn’t, instead grabbing the mug next to it. I bite my bottom lip to keep from smiling.
“How was your week?” He pours his coffee.
I huff a laugh. “You kinda already know. We talked every night.”
He shakes his head. “Right.”
We’re being so careful around each other.
He’s been the best part of my day. His voice on the phone made me forget how tired I was, how far I felt from home. Now, he’s standing six feet away, and I can’t figure out how to close the gap.
“Do you think—” He cuts himself off. “Never mind.”
My brows pull together. “What were you gonna say?”
He sips his coffee, sets it down, then tucks his hands in the pocket of his hoodie.
I wait him out.
“Do you think I could hug you?” he asks.
There’s a pinch in my chest, a swoop in my stomach. A pull toward the edge of something I agreed not to want. Like standing at the top of a skyscraper.
Yeah. I’m in big trouble.
I round the island. He stands straighter, arms open. When I reach him, he pulls me in, my temple against his chest, his minty breath warm against my bare shoulder.
I pull back just enough to meet his eyes. A smile breaks across my face.
“Fifteen,” he mumbles.
“Huh?”
“Nothing.”