Chapter One Jamie #3
He leads me to a modest sedan that suits him perfectly.
It’s neater inside than any car should be, making my decision to leave my SUV behind a great one.
Once we’re buckled up and the music he’d left blaring is turned down, I give him enough directions to get us close to where I want to be.
If he’s concerned about how far away we’re going when there are a hundred taco options on any given street, he doesn’t say.
Mateo doesn’t say much, actually. He simply coasts through an almost magical series of green lights while I daydream about other obstacles we could conquer together.
After another few minutes, he reaches the freeway on-ramp, and we speed up so smoothly that I almost don’t notice how fast we’re going.
The comfortable silence stretches on, and I become unusually certain of a couple of things.
Whatever happens between us over the next few hours will be unlike anything I’ve ever experienced before.
And I’ll spend far too many years chasing a way to turn those hours into forever.
It’s already so easy and so hard, because while I have no idea who he is or what he wants, I know I’m afraid of myself and need it all.
I’d love to be charming, but I’m dragging him from a dive bar to a food truck.
I’m not sure what promises can be made between an alley and a parking lot.
I might have a better chance if I can figure out another hundred places for us to go, but that many safe spaces don’t exist for me.
I also can’t guarantee he’ll follow me any further, so I push away the fantasy for now and don’t waste time practicing the smile I mastered years ago.
“We’ll drive just past it,” I tell him once we’re on side streets again. “There’s a small lot on the right. It’ll be easier to park there than to pray for a spot on the street.”
“I mentioned that I’m hungry, right?” he teases. “You’re really gonna make me drive past the food just to walk back?”
“Mmmm, there might be a line for the tacos, too.”
“I hope the wait’s worth it.”
Mateo barely takes his eyes off the road when he says it, but his tone and a glance in my direction are enough to make me whimper weakly. I can only hope he misses it entirely when he’s staring straight ahead again and I stumble toward something at least as flirtatious.
“Won’t the wait be better if I’m right there with you?”
His eyes dart to me again, and I’m about to insist I was joking, but then he nods up ahead. “That’s it, right?”
“Yeah, and you’ll see the lot next. Park anywhere in there.”
He does, and we’re quiet again when we walk to the taco truck.
The line isn’t too bad, and after Mateo has cracked a small joke about it, he studies a menu I know too well.
I think this is a friendly thing we’re doing, grabbing a casual dinner together on a busy street.
I can’t be sure when all my friends have come from a pool of 30 years of teammates, and Kai.
I don’t remember the last time I was out with someone romantically. That comparison ends before it can begin.
Mateo nudges my shoulder with his. “So, what’s the least boring thing I could order here?”
“Ah, the jackfruit, probably,” I say, shaking myself free from the past. I grin from beneath the hat I tug a little lower. “But order whatever you want. I think you’ve proven plenty just by being out with me tonight.”
“Because boring people don’t accept invitations for an impromptu taco date from a guy whose name they didn’t know half an hour ago?”
I flinch, perhaps for a couple of reasons, but then I hum in agreement. “They do not.”
He doesn’t respond—not really—but after a few sticky seconds and blame that always lies with me, Mateo uses a single finger to tip the bill of my hat upward. His dark eyes demand something when they lock with mine.
“Which tacos are your favorite?” he asks.
“Mahi-mahi or carne asada.”
“Let’s get an order of each, then.”
We do exactly that, and somewhere around the time we’re walking away from the truck with our food in hand, I find the certainty my voice had lost and the composure I’ve always faked just fine.
I lead us to a side street and sit on the curb, my legs extended because now and then my body demands it.
We’ve got our tacos and beans and rice and chips and guac, and it’s easy to share everything but the straws in our own separate cups of Coke.
Food gets passed back and forth with a familiarity we’re bold enough to claim for the night.
Whether he knows it or not, Mateo leans a little closer after each bite or two, and I meet him halfway because I want us to share that, too.
In between bites, we don’t talk about ourselves.
Or we do, but not in a traditional, small-talk, getting-to-know-you sort of way.
I don’t know Mateo’s last name or where he lives or what he does for a living.
Mostly, I think I want to avoid stumbling onto a series of questions I’m not ready to answer.
I already know I won’t be able to refuse anything he asks of me.
And even while I tell myself there’s a decent chance he doesn't know who Jameson Sinclair is—hockey is still a niche sport here, no matter how much of a superstar I might’ve been while playing it—I’m not ready to risk the loose grip I have on anonymity.
Just for tonight—just with Mateo—I want to be nobody.
I think back to when I was 19 and won the Calder.
A magazine did a dumb Q&A as part of a Rookie of the Year spread they wouldn’t have bothered with if I hadn’t been marketably mouthy and a very valuable shade of beautiful.
Back then, I couldn’t imagine that anyone cared about my breakfast habits or favorite scent or weirdest fear.
I’ve never bothered to share them with people in the years since.
But for the first time in my life, I get it.
I want to know about Mateo’s breakfast habits and favorite scent and weirdest fear, so I ask him.
He answers everything. And then he asks me right back.
We don’t stop, and I learn about his favorite food truck and its five different kinds of macaroni and cheese.
Another minute or so has him confessing that he’ll always turn to creamy soups and pastas when he's in need of comfort. I tell him that ice cream is the one food I crave a little too often, happy to treat myself to a scoop or two even if I’m standing in the middle of a snowstorm.
Mateo laughs at the number of impersonations I can perform on demand, and I get to hear about a grunge phase he had when he was probably too young to have it, a teenage neighbor nearby to dress him in flannel and introduce him to Pearl Jam.
I mention that my favorite movie when I was little was The Wizard of Oz, and skate too close to a story about singing one of its songs to Harper years ago.
He argues with me about the existence of ghosts and tells me about a scary slumber party when he was in middle school.
It's too easy and too comfortable, and none of it has a chance of changing my mind about wanting more time with him. Safe spaces are still a scarcity, but an idea starts in my head and drops to knock around my ribcage. I speak, mostly because I think it will hurt more if I don’t.
“Do you have somewhere else to be tonight?” I ask, my eyes on the last few chips in my lap until I remember I’d rather be looking at him.
“I thought I already answered that.”
“Last time I asked, you said you were hungry. What happens now that we’re done eating?”
Mateo steals one of my chips. He waits until I’m watching a couple of teenagers run across the street before he steals the other two.
If he’d rather sit here all night, I’m not sure I’d argue with him.
Hell, I’d go buy him more chips, but before I can offer, he takes a deep breath and exhales a single word.
“No.”
“No, what?”
“No, I don’t have somewhere else to be,” he says. “So, where do you want to go?”