6. “I know too much about you to share food with you.”
6
“I know too much about you to share food with you.”
Aaron Miles
“Good practice, gentlemen,” Coach says when we’re back in the locker room. He gives us a bit more advice for tomorrow’s game, then reads off the schedule.
“Before I let you go, Jenna has something to tell you,” he says, and Jenna enters the room with a smile.
“Hey, guys. We’re going to host a charity auction next week for the Creating Smiles Foundation. But we’re doing something a little different t his time.” Her eyes dart between all of us. “ You will be the prizes.”
Whispers ripple around the room.
“We’re auctioning a night out with each player of the team, and—”
Chatter and whistles erupt, and Coach takes a step forward, extending his hands to calm the ruckus. “Before you get all worked up, no, that’s not where this is going,” he says with a shake of his head, probably seeing the smirks on some of the guys’ faces.
Jenna nods. “Auction winners will get to go on a ‘date’ with their player in a public place. You’ll have a chat with them, answer questions—that sort of thing. Each of you will choose your outing. It can be a simple dinner and drinks, but also something like golf, a workout, time at the batting cage, you name it.”
“Is this mandatory?” Wilcott grumbles, and I repress a chuckle. Media and charity stuff are his pet peeves.
Coach shakes his head. “No, but I’m sure you’ll all be more than happy to participate in the name of charity.”
Wilcott runs a hand through his hair before leaning back in his stall with a nod.
“Of course, we’ll make sure nothing sketchy is involved,” Jenna adds. “And there will be a PR supervisor present on those ‘dates.’ Any questions?”
No one makes a m ove, so Coach clasps his hands together. “All right, you’re dismissed. See you tomorrow at nine.”
The chatter resumes around the room, and jerseys get thrown off into the bin.
“Should be interesting,” Adler says, taking his socks off. “Maybe a hot chick will take pity on you, Miles, and you’ll finally have a date.”
Laughter erupts around us, and I just shake my head. “As if.”
It’s true, I haven’t dated much since I got to New York. But honestly, the few relationships I’ve been in never lasted long, so I’m not eager to put more effort into the dating game for now. I’m at the prime of my career. That’s what counts.
“You guys want to bet on who’s going to bring in the most money?” Adler continues, waggling his eyebrows.
“I’m in,” Beaumont blurts, full of confidence as always. That kid has a betting problem, I swear.
I adjust the cap on my head. “Fine by me. But shouldn’t you be worried about Hayley?”
He shakes his head. “I’ll do something casual. I actually like the batting cage idea. Nothing romantic about that.”
“Good idea,” Adler says. “ No one will bet on that. Victory will be mine.”
“Won a bet once,” Beaumont sa ys, grinning. “I’ll win this one too.”
Well, this should be interesting.
We have a day off before two back-to-back games against Pittsburgh and Washington, and we spend most of our time prepping and practicing for tomorrow. But the fun part is always at the end of the day, especially when Marissa is traveling with us.
“So, where are we going for dinner?” Hawthorne asks Adler when we meet in the hotel lobby. “Somewhere fancy, I’m sure. We know how much you love your steaks.”
He flashes a side grin. “You know me well.”
“Oh, come on. You’re paying, then,” says Beaumont, who’s still in his rookie contract.
“If you don’t like it, you’ll just have to get better at cards,” Adler shoots back, hitting him in the chest.
Marissa and I share a knowing smile as they continue arguing and bantering until we reach the restaurant. When we get there, a few people recognize us, so we get stopped a few times before settling into our seats at a nice corner table.
Our waiter brings us our food, an d Marissa immediately gives me the tomatoes that came in her salad. She doesn’t like them but always forgets to ask to take them out. And I drop the lemon from my water into hers. She loves having extra.
I start cutting my steak, but no one at the table is speaking.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, glancing up. Beaumont is digging into his food, but Hawthorne and Adler are gawking at me.
“You guys are weird, you know that?” Adler says, shaking his head.
I shrug, glancing at Marissa. “No, we’re not.”
“It’s called friendship,” she retorts with a smirk. “Don’t you have a best friend, James?”
“I do. He’s sitting right next to you.”
She casts me a side glance, and I grin. “Don’t fight over me, now.”
Hawthorne and Beaumont laugh.
“Am I not your best bud?” Adler asks, putting his fork and knife down.
I reach out to bump fists with him. “Of course you are.” I turn to Marissa. “And so are you.”
“Then how come we don’t share food?” Adler continues, wearing a smirk.
“I know too much about you to s hare food with you.”
All of us burst into laughter, even Adler.
“Good point.”
We chat and argue all night about the most futile things, but in truth, it’s a perfect night. There’s nothing I love more than hanging out with my friends, my family. When you play with the same guys for two seasons—especially when you make it all the way to the Stanley Cup final—a special bond forms, and I know how lucky I am to be a part of it.
After dinner, we continue chatting in the hotel lobby before going back to our rooms. I change into my boxers, and ten minutes later, there’s a knock on the connecting door.
“Hey, Hotshot. Movies and snacks?” Marissa asks, holding an M&M’s pack.
I laugh, letting her in. “Absolutely.”
It’s our road game ritual—one of the things that feels like home no matter where we are. She breezes in, already wearing her sweats and a hoodie, her hair pulled back into a messy bun. She looks effortlessly comfortable, as always. Yet, lately, I can’t seem to shake this awareness, this . . . pull.
She flops onto the bed, shaking the M&M’s bag for emphasis. “So, what’s the pick? If it’s not a whodunnit, I’m vetoing.”
“As if I’d subject us to anyt hing less than a good mystery,” I shoot back, grabbing the remote. “The question is: old-school or something new?”
Her eyes light up, and she leans toward me, her knee brushing against mine. I ignore the heat that crawls up my neck. “Something with a ridiculous twist, obviously. I want to be shocked and then laugh about how predictable it was.”
“You’re not an easy woman to please, but lucky for you, I deliver.” I scroll through the options until I find a campy murder mystery with a theatrical poster image and an all-star cast. “This should do the trick.”
She grins, pulling the throw blanket over us as if this is the most natural thing in the world. And it is. At least, it should be. But as Marissa settles in beside me, huddling close enough that I can feel the warmth of her shoulder, the space I’ve spent years keeping between us feels paper-thin.
The movie opens with dramatic music, an old manor, and a stormy night. “Oh, classic setup,” she mumbles, popping an M&M into her mouth. “What’s your bet? The butler? Long-lost cousin? Or the mysterious friend who just happens to show up after years away?”
“Always the butler,” I say, smirking. “You can’t go wrong with the guy who has the keys to everything.”
“Amateur guess.” She laughs, pointing at the screen. “It’s always the least suspicious one. Like the sweet old lady with the knitting needles.”
“That’s dark,” I say, nudging her with my elbow. “Remind me not to trust you in a crisis.”
“You already do,” she teases, her voice light. But there’s something in the way she says it—soft and familiar, but weighted. When I glance at her, she’s still focused on the screen, her expression lit with excitement.
I sit back and try to focus on the movie. The first big twist hits, and Marissa gasps, grabbing my arm. “No way. The gardener? Did you see that coming?”
I didn’t. I was too distracted by how natural this feels—her hand on my arm, the sound of her laughter, the way she lights up over something as silly as a cheesy murder mystery. It’s easy and comfortable, but I feel that undercurrent again, like I’m teetering on the edge of something I can’t afford to fall into.
She releases my arm quickly, laughing at herself. “Okay, maybe it’s not the old lady.”
“Still plenty of movie left,” I say, trying to keep my tone light.
We keep watching, trading theories and throwing M&Ms at each other when the characters make particularly ridiculous choices. She’s so anima ted, so completely in her element, and I’m struggling to keep my walls up.
I force my eyes on the screen, on the ridiculous plot twist unfolding in front of us. But my mind is on her. Always on her.
And I know I’m in big trouble .