8. “Yep. I’m pretty transparent, aren’t I?”
“Yep. I’m pretty transparent, aren’t I?”
Caleb Hawthorne
When she takes my hand, the contact sends thousands of sparks dancing up my arm. I don’t think I’ve ever felt that in my life. Maybe once, back in college, but that was a long time ago.
“Likewise,” she says, her cheeks flushing red.
“So, Aria.” I smile, loving the way the name rolls off my tongue. “I was thinking you could meet my friends Marissa and Beth tomorrow. The ones I mentioned this morning? They own a coffee shop, and they close at noon on Sunday. They’d love to go shopping with you.”
She sits on her hands, her confidence wavering. “Um, no. I think I’m good here. But thanks for offering.”
“Come on, Aria. They’re super nice. I’m sure you’ll get along well.”
Her gaze flicks to the floor. “Really, I’m good here. I enjoyed staying in today.” She refuses to look me in the eye.
“Don’t you need clothes? We can’t wash yours every day, you know,” I tease. “And my stuff is definitely too big.” Not that I mind letting her wear my clothes.
She continues to avoid my gaze, her voice soft, almost reluctant. “It’s all right. It’s not like I have any fabulous parties to attend. For now, I’m fine hanging out here or at the therapist.”
I perch on the edge of the couch. “Come on. You’re not going to stay cooped up inside until you get your memory back. The doctor said it could take months. I brought you home with me to live your life, not to have you confined in my house.”
Finally, she glances at me, her eyes brimming with worry. “What if I have zero pennies to my name and can never pay you back? You already got me a phone. I definitely don’t feel wealthy. And it’s not like I can work right now.”
I relax a little, now that I know the cause of her resistance. “Don’t worry about that. I make a good living. Besides, you’re in this situation because of me. When I said I wanted to help, I meant it. Please.”
She lets out a breath, and I see the tension easing in her shoulders. “Fine, I’ll go.”
I smile. “Good. Breathing some fresh air and seeing other people might help jog your memory too. But if it doesn’t, that’s okay. You have time. At least you’ll make new friends and have a nice day out.”
“Yeah, I guess.” She clears her throat. “So, tell me more about hockey,” she says, clearly eager to change the subject.
I arch an eyebrow, intrigued by her curiosity. “What about it? You want to know the rules?”
“More like, how did it become your job? It’s not every day you meet a professional athlete. At least, I’m pretty sure it’s unusual for me.”
I breathe out a chuckle. “I’m honestly relieved you don’t want to get bogged down by the rules, because it’s not that simple to explain.
If you ever do want to learn, though, I have the full rulebook in the closet right there, behind the third door.
” I gesture with a smirk. “Anyway, hockey’s been a part of my life since I was three.
My dad is a fan, and he put me on skates the first chance he got. ”
A smile builds on her face. “Wow. Is he a player too?”
“Nope. He owns a construction b usiness in the tri-state area. New York, New Jersey, and Connecticut.”
“Ohh, so that’s where you got the construction bug,” she says, her eyes twinkling.
“Yep. I’m pretty transparent, aren’t I?”
She laughs, the cascading sound light and genuine. “I wish I had that problem,” she jokes, and I join in her laughter. It’s fascinating to me that, despite everything that’s happening to her, she manages to keep her sense of humor.
“That’s because your life is probably less boring than mine, or maybe just less straightforward.
My life has always revolved around hockey.
Clubs, championships, getting drafted, starting my career in the NHL, finding a spot with the Raptors, and now being captain.
It’s the logical continuation, I guess.”
“And you’ve scored some shiny trophies along the way,” she adds, her tone teasing.
With a low chuckle, I glance at the display. “Yeah, that too. But those are just a bonus. It’s not why you play the game.” I rub my jaw. “Well, the Stanley Cup is different, but otherwise, the awards are just the cherry on top, you know?”
“So, the Stanley Cup is the big trophy you fight for every year?”
“Yep. The entire championship l eads up to it. Professional hockey is a grueling sport, and the Stanley Cup is a tough trophy to win,” I say, a bittersweet feeling in my chest as I remember both the moment we won it and lost it.
“And you got it.” Her eyes soften with admiration.
“We did. Once, two years ago. It was amazing. The single best moment of my life.”
“Does your family come to your games? I saw your pictures,” she admits with a wince.
Her cheekiness makes me smile. “Sometimes. They would never miss the playoffs and the Stanley Cup finals, but regular games, not so much. My parents live in Jersey while my older sister is down in Pennsylvania. The youngest just moved to Paris last year.”
Her eyes stretch wide. “Wow, that’s far away.”
“I know. But that was her dream. She seems happy there, so it works for me.”
“I wonder if I have any siblings,” she muses, her voice like a whisper.
My heart clenches. “If you do, they’ll be out looking for you soon, I’m sure.” I know I would be. Even if Gaby is all the way in Paris, if more than two days passed without her sending me any signs of life, I’d alert the authorities.
She frowns, clearly surprised by my answer. “Sorry, I didn’t think I said that out loud.”
“You can talk to me, you know. About all this. I’m not sure I’ll be a big help, but I’m a good listener. The guys on my team know that—and abuse it, sometimes—but I’m here if you need me.”
The corners of her lips lift, and her smile warms my chest more than I care to admit. “Thanks. I’m sure you’re a fantastic captain.”
“Doing my best.” I offer a grin, then look at my watch. “Are you hungry?”
“Well, there’s not much I know about myself, but I’m pretty sure I never say no to food,” she says with a chuckle. “Oh, and I kind of ate half of the waffles that I found in the freezer.”
I laugh, genuinely amused. “With all the vegetables and meat in the fridge, you went for the waffles? That does tell us something about you. You obviously have a sweet tooth.”
“ Orrr , I just really didn’t want to set your kitchen on fire,” she says, standing up from the couch with a shrug. “Who knows what kind of cooking skills I have?”