Chapter 27
Lincoln
Yeah. I’m fucked.
Mint and green tea rolls over me, clean and sharp and sweet.
I force my hands to move, lifting them between us. You look beautiful.
It’s not perfect, but it’s smoother than when I practiced in the mirror. My pinky doesn’t stray, my wrists don’t lock.
Her eyes light up. She smiles; it’s a slow, delighted movement that starts in her mouth and moves all the way up to her eyes. She signs back—thank you—then mouths, “you too,” exaggerating the words just enough that it’s easy to read.
Heat crawls up my neck. “Ready?” I ask, slow and clear.
She nods, and I offer her my hand without thinking; she slips her fingers into mine like it’s the most natural thing in the world. They’re small and warm, calloused just enough that I know she works with them. Cameras. Lenses. Signing. A whole life held in those hands.
We walk to the truck, our arms brushing. I open the passenger door for her, stepping back so she can climb up. She glances between me and the open door, lips twitching.
“What?” I ask.
She pulls her phone from her pocket, thumbs moving quickly. Then she turns the screen toward me.
Bayleigh: Alpha gentleman move. 10/10. Benton would combust.
A laugh bursts out of me before I can stop it. “Then I’ll make sure I keep doing it,” I say, grinning.
She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling as she climbs in. Once she’s settled, I close the door gently and circle around to my side.
By the time I slide behind the wheel, my heart’s pounding like I just did wind sprints.
It’s just a date, I tell myself.
Yeah, but she’s not just anyone.
I start the engine. The dashboard lights glow softly, and the radio kicks on low, some acoustic playlist Milton left queued. I pull out of the driveway and onto the street, glancing over at her.
She’s watching me, chin propped in her hand, hair spilling over her shoulder. When she catches me looking, she lifts her phone again.
Bayleigh: Where are we going?
“Riverside Grill,” I say. “No hockey, just you and me.”
Her mouth curves. She types.
Bayleigh: No fans ready to start a brawl? I’m shocked.
“I’m trying this new thing where I don’t get my date caught in a crossfire.”
Her shoulders shake with silent laughter. I catch it out of the corner of my eye, and something tight in my chest loosens.
At the next red light, I tap her arm to get her attention, then lift my hand between us.
My fingers shape her name. B-A-Y-L-E-I-G-H.
I mess up the Y at first, my thumb too stiff. I fix it. Do it again.
She watches my hands like they’re doing magic, eyes bright. When I finish, she signs something back, slower for me—my name, she mouths, and repeats the letters with her own fingers, perfectly.
I try mine again. Better. Not good. But better.
Her smile says it’s enough.
The light turns green. I drop my hand, and we cruise the rest of the way in a comfortable kind of quiet—her scent curling around me, my brain running through everything I don’t want to screw up.
Riverside Grill’s half-full when we walk in. Warm lighting. Exposed brick. A low murmur of conversation instead of the roar of a game. No jerseys in sight.
I exhale a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding.
The hostess greets us with a too-bright smile. “Table for two?”
“Yeah,” I say, angling my body so Bayleigh can see my mouth. “Somewhere quiet if you’ve got it?”
She follows my glance to Bayleigh, clocking the way she watches my lips, and her expression softens. “Of course. Right this way.”
She leads us toward the back, to a booth near the windows. The light from outside is fading, but the overhead fixture casts enough glow that Bayleigh’s face is clear, her eyes easy to see.
Good. She’ll be able to catch everything.
I let her slide into the booth first, then sit across from her. Menus land on the table. The hostess gives us a quick, polite smile and leaves.
For a beat, we just look at each other.
“Hi,” I say, feeling stupid but saying it, anyway.
Her lips curve. She signs hi back and mouths, “Nervous?”
I huff out a laugh. “Is it that obvious?”
She lifts one hand and wiggles it in a “so-so” motion, then grabs her phone.
Bayleigh: A little. You keep rubbing your palms on your jeans.
I glance down. Sure enough, there are faint smears on my thighs from where I’ve wiped them dry a few too many times.
Caught.
“Okay, yeah,” I admit, making the words slow. “You make me nervous.”
Her eyes flare just a little. Then she leans forward, elbows on the table, thumbs tapping.
Bayleigh: Good. Because I’m nervous too.
Something warm unspools inside me.
We open our menus. I pretend to read it; instead, I end up watching the way her mouth moves when she chews on her lower lip, considering her options. I track the way her fingers trail along the edge of the laminated page. When she glances up and catches me staring, I drop my eyes, busted.
She snorts, shakes her head, then points to an item on her menu and raises her brows.
“Burger?” I guess.
She nods. Types.
Bayleigh: Burger. Fries. No onion. I’m basic.
“Basic is great,” I say, meaning it. “Especially if it means you don’t smell like onion all night.”
She smirks and points at me. Your turn?
I go for the same—burger, fries, extra pickles, because I like living dangerously. When the waitress swings by, I give the order, making sure to move my mouth clearly in case Bayleigh wants to follow along. She watches both of us, eyes flicking back and forth, catching more than I expect.
Once we’re alone again, I decide to stop being a coward.
I lift my hands.
You. Work. I sign, halting but recognizable. Then, I point at her and tilt my head.
Her face lights up. She signs back quickly, then pauses, makes a face, slows down, breaks it up.
Camera. I. Work. Her eyebrows quirk, and she mouths, “Kraken.” Then she pulls her phone out to fill in the rest.
Bayleigh: I do the team's social media, mostly. I can work from home, and I’m good at it.
I grin. “Explains you helping at the charity event.”
Her eyes narrow playfully, and she shoots back a message.
Bayleigh: I like my job. The fans or enemies? Not so much. I like taking pictures for the team and posting them.
“You’re good at it? The photo stuff?” I ask.
She nods, a little shy, then starts scrolling through her camera roll. She turns the phone so I can see.
Shots of the ice. Players in motion. Benton mid-check, eyes fierce. Kids at the charity event, smiles wide, sticks raised. One of Milton in the net, helmet off, sweat on his brow, mouth open in a yell. The angles are sharp. The emotion’s right there, easy to feel.
“These are really good,” I say, and I don’t even have to slow down. I want her to see how much I mean it. “Like, really good.”
Her cheeks go pink. She glances down, then signs thank you, small and quick.
I take my turn when she asks about my work. Being an electrician isn’t glamorous, but I lean into the ridiculous parts—nearly getting shocked because someone lied about cutting power, a raccoon in an attic staring me down while I tried to swap out wiring.
She laughs silently, shoulders shaking, hand over her mouth.
I like that soundless laugh. I like being the reason it happens.
Every so often, I try a sign or two from class—how, good, you, name. Sometimes I butcher them, my fingers off by just enough to change the meaning. She corrects me gently, taking my hand in hers, repositioning my fingers.
“Like this,” she mouths, eyes focused on the shape she’s making.
Her skin is warm against mine. The contact is chaste, but my body doesn't care. Heat licks up my forearm, low and insistent. I pull in a slow breath, locking it down.
Easy. Don’t be that guy. You’re not here to get her into bed. You’re here to earn her trust, I think to myself.
“Thanks,” I say when I get it right. “I’m trying.”
She pulls her phone back out, types something, then pushes it toward me.
Bayleigh: I can tell. Most people don’t make it past the alphabet.
“Most people?”
She hesitates, thumbs hovering. Then she shrugs and writes anyway.
Bayleigh: Old friends. A guy I dated once. Teachers. They start, then it’s “too hard” or “too slow” and they stop.
Her eyes flick up to mine, searching.
Something in my chest twists.
I think of my class. The parents desperate to talk to their kids. The teacher who wants to include everyone. Me, the random electrician who signed up because one omega made the world tilt.
I reach across the table, slow enough that she can see me coming, and rest my hand palm-up between us.
She lifts her gaze, curious.
I sign clumsily but clearly.
I stay.
Her breath catches. Just a little. But I see it.
The waitress arrives with our plates, breaking the moment. Burgers, fries, and condiments. Sizzling hot and smelling like heaven.
Bayleigh signs thank you without thinking about it. The waitress smiles, a little surprised, and signs you’re welcome back—awkward but earnest.
Bayleigh’s brows shoot up. She looks at me, delighted.
“She’s better than me,” I mutter, and that earns me another eye roll and a grin.
We eat. We talk. We text across the table like a couple of teenagers. It’s easy in a way nothing’s been for a long time.
Every now and then, the world intrudes—hockey, the rivalry, Benton—but it feels farther away than ever.
Right now, it’s just us.
The air outside has turned colder by the time we leave.
I open the door for her again. She steps out into the night, breath puffing in a faint cloud. Streetlights cast halos on the pavement; the river down the block shimmers dark and quiet.
“Cold?” I ask.
She shrugs but pulls her coat tighter, a motion I feel in my bones because all I want to do is wrap my arms around her and warm her up.
I settle for offering my arm. She eyes it for a beat, then loops her hand through, palm resting against the inside of my elbow. Her fingers curl, just enough pressure that I feel each point of contact.