Chapter 33
THIRTY-THREE
I sink back, wishing this ugly couch would swallow me whole.
Seven days of mediating between two grown men who refuse to be in the same room without glaring at each other.
Seven days of “Boone, Cash has a point,” and “Cash, maybe try it Boone’s way,” and “Can we please just focus on the music?”
To no avail.
Forget about writing a song. Recording? I scoff. If I make it through today without them killing each other, or me killing them both, I’ll consider it a win.
“The tempo’s too fast.” Boone crosses his arms.
Cash leans back in his chair. “It’s right for radio.”
“This isn’t about radio. It’s about the song.”
“The song needs to get played… on the radio. That’s the whole point.” Cash kicks his feet onto the arm of Boone’s favorite chair.
Boone swats them off. “The point is to make good music.”
“Now you’re saying my music isn’t good?”
I close my eyes. Here we go again.
“Guys—”
“Don’t waste your breath, Summer.” Cash’s boots land on the chair once more. “He cannot be reasoned with.”
Boone shoves them off again with a grunt.
“I’ve had three number one hits. How many have you had?” Cash adjusts his cowboy hat.
“More than you, you ungrateful shit.” Boone’s jaw ticks. “Get out.”
“What?” Cash shoots up and takes a couple of steps toward Boone.
“I said, get out of my studio.”
“Fine.” Cash pivots, then grabs his jacket off the couch. “Good luck recording a duet with one person. Unless you’re stepping out of retirement?”
Boone turns his back to both of us, and Cash stomps toward the door.
And I’ve had enough. “Stop!”
They both freeze.
“I’m done,” I say. “I’m done playing referee. I’m done watching you two act like children. And I’m done with you ruining my opportunity because you can’t get over whatever the heck”—I gesture between them—“this is.”
Cash opens his mouth, but I cut him off with a scowl.
“No. I’m talking. You’re right, the tempo matters for radio.” I turn to Boone. “You’re right that the song comes first.”
Boone tips his head back and mutters something that sounds like “God, give me mercy.”
“So here’s what’s going to happen. We’re going to record it both ways. Then we’ll listen to the two recordings and pick the one that serves the song. Not your egos.”
Cash nods once. Boone sits down without a word, and I take it as agreement.
“Good.” I grab my guitar. “Can we please get back to work now?”
It takes one more come-to-Jesus moment, but we eventually lay down a rough track of the song Cash and I have been writing all week.
We record it Boone’s way first, then Cash’s.
Boone pulls them both up on the board, playing them side by side, his brow furrowed as he scribbles notes.
I take the opportunity to pull out my phone, angling it at my side.
Saints 3, Spurs 2. End of 2nd period.
They’re winning. I rub my sweaty palms on my jeans. If they win this, they only need three more wins to clinch a playoff spot.
I pocket my phone and try to refocus.
Boone doesn’t like Cash’s verse, and after another listen, Cash agrees he can do it better and hops back into the booth.
They’re bickering about the remaster when I sneak another look at the score. If their arguing is good for anything, it’s as a distraction and a way to avoid Boone’s undivided attention. Checking hockey scores on a normal day in the studio would never fly.
Saints 4, Spurs 2. 5:00 left in 3rd.
Come on, Miles.
“—you think?”
I only catch the end of Boone’s question. “Sorry, what was that?”
He repeats himself. “The chorus—what do you think?”
“Can you play it again?” My lips tip up in what I hope is a don’t-be-annoyed-with-my-lack-of-focus smile. I mean, neither of them has room to talk at all.
My leg bounces as he replays it at least a dozen times, tweaking things on the boards each time. They all sound the same to me, and I tell him so.
“Yours suits the lyrics better,” Cash admits.
“Yours is catchier,” Boone mutters.
“So, what if…” Cash leans forward. “What if we start with your tempo in the verse, then pick up to mine in the chorus?”
Boone’s brows furrow. “That could work.”
I blink. Did they just… agree?
I slip my phone out again.
FINAL: Saints 5, Spurs 2
“Yes!” I jump out of my seat, fist pumping the air.
Both of them stare at me.
“Sorry.” I’m grinning so wide my face hurts. “The Saints won. They only need three more wins to make the playoffs.”
Cash returns my smile, but Boone spins back to the boards with a shake of his head.
Someone’s stomach growls loudly, and Boone scowls at Cash, as if the nutritional needs of his body are an annoyance. To be fair, his diet is pretty terrible. Coffee is his primary food group, from what I’ve seen.
“What?” Cash shrugs. “Can’t we get a lunch break around here?”
“Go.” Boone stands. “Be back in an hour.”
He disappears before either of us can respond.
Cash’s fingers swipe at his phone. “You hungry? There’s a diner about ten minutes from here. They make a mean burger.”
I hesitate. Miles packed me lunch this morning—like he does most days—and I look forward to the little notes he sneaks inside almost as much as the food
But this is the second time Cash has asked, and after turning him down the first time, I should probably say yes. We’re becoming friends, I think.
“Sure. Let me grab my coat.”
I slip on my lighter jacket, thankful that April has brought temperatures in the fifties with it.
Cash drives a blacked-out Range Rover that smells like expensive cologne and new leather. Country music plays low from the speakers.
Boone is trudging across his property to his Airstream as we pull out.
“What’s up with him?” Cash follows my gaze.
I shrug. “He’s not so bad once you get used to him.”
“I don’t know about that.” He turns up the volume, and the short drive passes with a little conversation and a lot of good music.
The diner is exactly what you’d expect. Red vinyl booths. Checkered floors. A jukebox in the corner playing some 90’s hit.
We slide into a booth by the window.
“So,” Cash says, studying the menu. “The playoffs… that’s a big deal, right?”
“Yeah, it’s like winning a Grammy in the hockey world.” At least, that’s how Mia described it.
“How long have you and Hockey Boy been together?” The thick plastic pages squeak as he flips through the menu.
“His name is Miles.”
“I know. But Hockey Boy is more fun.” He grins.
I roll my eyes. “A few months. I met him in December.”
“What can I get you?” the waitress asks. I order a grilled cheese with tomato soup, and Cash gets a deluxe burger.
When she leaves, I ask, “What about you? Are you dating?”
I’ve never seen Cash’s name linked with anyone. But I don’t keep up with that stuff.
“Nah. Not really my thing.”
“Relationships?”
He shrugs. “It’s hard with this career.”
“Oh.” I imagine it’s difficult, but— “How so?”
“Time and attention are things most people want in a relationship. Touring, a different city every night, recording, press—it doesn’t leave much time to build a connection, let alone keep one.”
Miles and I are different, though. We’ve already built a connection. We understand each other’s careers. He gets that I need to do this, and I get that hockey comes first for him.
But we barely see each other as is, and we live in the same house. We squeeze in mornings and late nights. And Mondays.
What happens when I’m on the road? When it’s not just schedules that keep us apart, but actual distance?
We can make it work.
I pick at my napkin. “You’ve never tried?”
He laughs. “Why, you askin’? You interested?”
“What—no, of course not—”
“Calm down. I’m kidding.” He sips his Coke, then smiles. “You’re not really my type.”
I let out a breath, relief flooding through me. Not that I thought—but still. It’s nice to have it clear. “Good to know.”
“Besides, even if you were, Hockey Boy would kill me. And I like my face the way it is.”
I hitch a shoulder. “Probably.”
He barks a laugh.
“We don’t have to worry about that, though,” I say. “You’re not my type, either.”
At least, not anymore. Cash is pretty close to how I imagined my hypothetical future husband. Classically handsome. Polite—mostly. Could teach me a thing or two about guitar, and sing me a love song.
But somewhere along the way, my type turned into Miles King. It might’ve happened that first day, but who’s to say, really? The important part is it’s him now, and that’s how I want it to stay.
The food comes. We talk about music, about Nashville, about my album, and our song as we eat. It’s easy. Comfortable.
Being around Cash makes me miss my brother. The rest of my family, too. I talk to them at least once a week, but the ache of missing home never really goes away. Maybe I’ll talk to Miles about bringing them up for a visit.
“What’re your plans for after we’re done recording?” I ask, dunking my sandwich into my soup. Cash eyes the whole thing like he’s never experienced the magical combo of tomato soup and grilled cheese.
“Tour.” He pops a fry into his mouth.
I think I heard something about that. “Nice. When does that—” I cut off when my phone rings and rush to answer. “Congratulations!”
Miles laughs. “You watched?” He sounds tired but happy.
“Checked the score. I was in the studio.”
“We played well. Fox got a hat trick.”
“That’s three goals, right?”
“Yeah.” Somehow, the single word holds so much pride.
I’ve learned a lot since moving to Chicago.
I can watch a whole game now without calling Mia for an explanation on each penalty.
I still don’t completely get the “delay of game” one, but I’ve come a long way in my hockey knowledge.
I even kind of enjoy watching it… Though I’m not sure that’d hold if Miles weren’t the one playing.
“Sounds like we might have something to celebrate soon.” I know enough not to say anything definite. Don’t want to jinx it.
“Yeah. Three more, and we’re in.”
There’s noise in the background. Lots of shouting.
“Where are you?”
“Locker room. About to head out. The guys are already planning a party for when we clinch,” he says, and I picture him shaking his head.
“A party sounds fun.” I tear a piece of bread off my sandwich, then drop it back on the plate.
“Yeah. Kettler’s wife is usually the planner, so it’ll probably be at their place.”
“Oh yeah, she messaged me about the playoff jackets—”
“You don’t have to… I know you’ve got your own stuff—Just—” he huffs. “I’m trying to say, no pressure.”
“Are you kidding me? You think I’m turning down the opportunity to have some fancy jacket with your name on the back?”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” I say softly. “I can’t wait.”
I smile, and I imagine Miles smiling, too.
An idea sparks. “So, about that party… shouldn’t the captain throw it?”
Silence, then finally, “What?"
“You’re the captain. You should host it.”
“Well, usually—”
“I can throw a great party, Miles. Let me do this.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I want to.” I pout, even though he can’t see it. Cash chuckles across from me, clearly eavesdropping. “Please? It’ll be fun.”
More silence.
“You there?”
The background noise fades, as if he’s moving somewhere more private. “I’ve never thrown a party at my place.”
I’m not surprised by that at all. He’ll go nuts with everything out of order, but now he has me to help him put it all right again.
“So? First time for everything, right?” I take a sip of water, and when he still doesn’t agree, I add, “I can handle it. I’ve organized tons of things.”
Tons of things include my cousin’s baby shower. Oh, and my mom’s fiftieth birthday party. Not exactly rich-hockey-player territory, but still, it counts.
“It’s not that. It’s…” He trails off. “It’s a lot of people. The whole team. Plus, wives and girlfriends. And—”
“Let me do this for you. Please?”
He sighs. “If we clinch.”
“Yep. If. Wink. Wink.”
Another sigh, but I hear his smile when he says, “Okay. Fine. If we clinch.”
“Deal!” I hang up before he can change his mind.
“Did I hear something about a party?” Cash smirks.