Chapter 15 #2
Bewildered for a second, Mitch simply frowned at Alex as Alex handed his ID to the server. “Oh!” Mitch said, finally catching on. “Shit, I’m legal here, aren’t I?”
The server took a quick but thorough glance at their IDs, handed them back, said, “I’ll be right back with your drinks,” and left.
“You did say you’d buy me a beer when I was legal,” Mitch said. He twisted his water glass on the table, the condensation leaving a trail of circles behind. “Should you be drinking, though? You’re the one driving back home.”
“I’m only having one,” Alex countered. “Besides, we’re not going straight back after dinner.”
“We’re not? Where are we going, then?”
“Didn’t you wonder why we brought our skates today?”
“Honestly, I kind of hoped you have friends who play for Toronto and were taking me to meet them,” Mitch said, all cautiously optimistic.
“No,” Alex replied, laughing. “That’s not it at all. Toronto’s not even your team, anyway.”
Mitch shrugged. “So? It’d still be cool to meet the players.”
The server returned and placed their beers on the table. “Ready to order, or do you need another few minutes?”
They ordered, and before the server could leave, Alex said, “Actually, can you bring us the poached lobster too?” The server didn’t even blink at their meal-for-three-for-two.
Mitch’s mouth fell open. “Are you crazy? It’s ninety-five dollars,” he whispered harshly over the table, as if Alex could forget.
Unconcerned, Alex lifted an uncaring shoulder. “I wanted to try it. I’ll share.”
“What if we don’t like it? That’s ninety-five bucks down the drain.”
“Mitch.” Alex resisted the need to reach out and put his hand over Mitch’s.
Had they been in private, he wouldn’t have hesitated.
But in public, where anyone here might’ve already recognized him?
Wasn’t happening. Alex leaned closer and lowered his voice.
“I play for the NHL. I can afford to eat fancy once in a while.”
Mitch glanced away. “Still.”
“You know,” Alex said, contemplating Mitch, “for someone from the Hamptons, you’re awfully stingy about money.”
It was the wrong thing to say.
“Seriously?” If Mitch’s eyes could shoot sparks, Alex would be a flaming ball of hurt. “You think I’m rich, just because I live in the Hamptons?”
“Aren’t you?”
Mitch shook his head, his fingers flexing around his beer glass.
“Tell me,” Alex pleaded. Please don’t revert back to the scared guy who never talked about anything important.
Mitch turned his head away, gazing either at the couple dining next to them or the city beyond the window, awash in hundreds of lights as the sky turned to dusk. Or maybe he wasn’t seeing anything but the thoughts circling in his head.
“I’m sorry, I—”
“No.” Mitch rolled his eyes—at himself or at Alex, Alex couldn’t tell.
“No, I’m sorry. Everybody assumes that, but for some reason, it always gets my back up.
Okay, first of all—” He held up his index finger.
“—not everybody who lives in the Hamptons is rich. I mean, sure, you’ve got your socialites who get thousand-dollar haircuts or five-hundred-dollar manicures and men who pay a shit-ton of money to play golf at the clubs.
But the people who give the haircuts or manicures or drive golf carts?
They’re just ordinary people who wouldn’t be able to make a living without their jobs. ”
“You’re right,” Alex said, suitably chastised. “I never considered it that way.” And given that he hadn’t grown up the richest of kids, who was he to judge?
“And second.” Mitch blew out a long breath and rested his forearms on the table. “My mom’s rich. The printing business.”
“I remember.”
“So yeah, her family’s loaded. And the money was always there for me when I was growing up.
I even had an account with money deposited into it every month.
But then a few years ago, when I told my mom I wasn’t going into the family business, that I wanted to play hockey and study kinesiology instead, she cut me off.
My brother got a full ride to Columbia, but I didn’t see a penny of tuition money.
” The skin around Mitch’s eyes pinched, making him seem older than his nineteen years.
Alex had known Mitch worked two jobs, but it hadn’t occurred to him that Mitch’s financial situation was quite that bad.
Mitch’s closed-off personality made so much more sense now. A brother who ignored him, a mother who’d cut him off. Alex would be afraid to show his true colors too, if the people who were supposed to love him had so callously tossed him aside.
Underneath the table, he pressed his knee against Mitch’s. “So you’ve got the partial hockey scholarship and the rest is covered by financial aid?”
Mitch’s incredulous chuckle scraped Alex’s nerves raw. “You’re kidding, right? Financial aid is based on parental income. I would’ve been laughed out of the office. The rest I pay out of pocket.”
“Your dad doesn’t help?”
“I’m sure he would if he, uh, knew.”
“Mitch—”
Mitch raised his hand in the universal motion for stop.
“Don’t, okay? I know what you’re going to say, and it’s not happening.
” He must’ve accurately read the unimpressed expression on Alex’s face because he said, “Look, my parents’ marriage has been strained since I was a kid.
I’m not going to be the one who gives them something else to fight about. ”
“I can understand that.” Let me help you. What not to say to a guy who was determined to go through life on his own. Talk about being laughed out of the office—or the restaurant, in this case.
Alex had money. Lots of money. Not veteran player money, but it was still two years with the NHL money. And it was just sitting there, helping no one. Sure, he donated to his favorite charities, but if he could help a friend who needed it, why wouldn’t he?
But he didn’t offer. Mitch really would laugh his way all the way down the CN Tower, then avoid the topic until Alex forgot about it or they were several states apart from each other, whichever came first.
Everything about Mitch made Alex want to bundle him up in bubble wrap and keep him safe. He kept that thought to himself too. Mitch would probably throw his knife at him for that one.
“Mitch…” It was now or never. This was the first time Alex had considered asking for Mitch’s help with the book where he didn’t fear getting shot down.
Alex had interviewed eleven hockey players as well as some of their close friends and family—mostly spouses and parents, along with a couple of siblings.
He’d also interviewed Chris Blair, as well as his team’s nutritionist, psychologist, and physician.
He didn’t need Mitch’s perspective. But he wanted it.
Mitch’s background, his struggles, his dedication, his total focus on getting to where he wanted to be, no matter the cost…
It would add an additional layer of realism to the book.
“Do you think I could use your story in the book I’m writing? ”
“Oh. Um…”
“I don’t have to,” Alex said, backpedaling. “And if you want, I can change your name to protect your privacy. In fact, I already have a pseudonym picked out.”
Mitch blinked at him. “You do? What is it?”
“Adrian.”
“I look like an Adrian?” He looked adorably insulted for some reason.
“No. But your hair reminds me of Adrian Grenier’s in The Devil Wears Prada.”
“Oh.” Mitch ran a hand through his too-long curls. They tumbled over his forehead and his ears, perfect little chocolate-colored corkscrews Alex wanted to touch. Mitch could probably pull it into a man bun, if he wanted. “Except mine’s better.”
“Undoubtedly.”
He beamed at Alex. “You can use my story. I don’t mind being an Adrian.”
“Yeah?”
Mitch shrugged. “Of course.”
Of course. Like it was no big deal. And maybe, at this point in their relationship, it wasn’t.
Their meal came. Mitch’s chicken stuffed with cheese and spinach smelled way better than Alex’s prime rib in that someone-else’s-food-always-looks-better-than-mine kind of way. They maneuvered the poached lobster into the middle of the small table.
And stared at it once the server left.
Mitch leaned closer and sniffed it. “Smells okay.”
The lobster was a light pink in the middle of the plate, sitting in a pool of tarragon butter sauce. Steamed asparagus, spiced fingerling potatoes, and glazed carrots finished off the presentation.
Alex poked the lobster with his fork. A small piece flaked off. “You go first,” he said to Mitch.
Mitch sat back fast. “Hell, no. You ordered it, you go first.”
That was fair. Alex forked a small bite, chewed slowly. Ninety-five dollars was not indicative of a good meal, but in this case Alex could cede that although it wasn’t worth ninety-five dollars, it wasn’t as bad as he’d feared. “It’s good. Tastes like fish in a tarragon butter sauce.”
Mitch eyed him distrustfully.
“Here.” Alex cut off another small piece, dipped it in the sauce thoroughly, and held it out to Mitch.
“Huh,” Mitch said as he chewed. “It is pretty good. Maybe not ninety-five bucks worth of good, but I don’t hate it.”
It so accurately reflected what Alex had been thinking that he smiled at Mitch with what he was sure was a dopey smile on his face.
“Um…” Mitch’s cheeks pinked and he smiled back just as dopily. “Did you know lobsters are either right-handed or left-handed, like humans?” He made a snapping motion with his hands.
Fuck, he was cute. “You would know something like that.”
“I almost majored in marine biology instead of kinesiology,” Mitch said, slicing into his chicken.
Alex paused with his fork halfway to his mouth to peer at Mitch, skeptical. “Are you making that up?”
Mitch grinned at him and kept eating.
* * *
Alex wanted him.
The victory dance going on in Mitch’s head looked like a combination of the Carlton and the moonwalk.