8. You Could Say I’m a Fan
8
YOU COULD SAY I’M A FAN
Miles
I don’t believe in wasting time. I’ve lost enough of it, from an injury that sidelined me for half a season a few years ago, to the dark place I went in my head from all that downtime, to the long hours on the bench when I first started out. Proving myself, earning my spot—none of that came easily. I know how fast time can slip away, especially in this life, where focus and luck matter as much as talent.
When I meet someone I actually like, I’m not about to let that chance slip by—especially with the season starting in a couple weeks, when life will only get busier. Sure, relationships don’t always work out. Hell, they rarely do, something I learned the hard way with Joanne, but something else I’ve been learning since I was a kid? Life is short. You need to grab your chances because they might not come around again.
So why not see her again now? This way, I can explain to her why I can’t go on a second date for the next few days while I’m away with the team. I played along with Birdie’s “rules” for our first date, but this is our second, and it’s time to come clean. As we drive back toward my home in the Marina District, though, there’s something I don’t want to forget. Something that I’ll probably enjoy on the road trip. “I want those pictures,” I say with a half-smile. “Guess that means I’ll need your number.”
She waggles her phone. “What’s yours?”
I rattle off the digits and she enters them on her phone. Mine buzzes on the console seconds later.
“See? I didn’t give you a fake one,” she teases.
I laugh. “Didn’t think you would.”
“I’ll send the pictures tomorrow, after I touch them up,” she says.
I raise an eyebrow. “Oh, you think I need photoshopping?”
“Trust me, everyone needs a little.”
I grin, trying to keep it light. “What will you do about Katrina? Any chance she might want another shoot?”
“Why? Are you considering a career change?” she quips, giving me an amused sidelong glance.
This could be a good opening to the what-do-you-do convo, but first, I want to make sure I don’t need to swing by a grocery store. “You know, maybe I am. But more importantly—any food restrictions? Anything you’re in the mood for?”
She taps her chin, her eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “Hmm…do you have artichokes?”
I chuckle, pulling up to my block across from Marina Green where Richardson Bay sparkles under the moonlight. The Golden Gate Bridge stands watch over the water. “That’s a very specific craving. ”
“I know what I like,” she says, shooting me that confident look she sent my way when she walked past me in High Kick the other day. The smile that caught my eye. “Lots of veggies. So, do you, Miles?”
There’s that challenge in her tone again. It’s the kind that says she’ll keep me on my toes and she wants me there. Fine by me. “Guess it’s your lucky day. I’ve got artichokes, red peppers, mushrooms…how about mushroom and artichoke pasta with a little olive oil and salt?”
Her smile turns mischievous. “So the chef is going to make me pasta.”
“Chef, huh?” My brow quirks as I pull into the garage. Does she actually believe that, or is this some inside joke I’m missing?
“Well, that sounds gourmet to me,” she says.
Okay, she’s just teasing. Fair enough. “Watch it, Shutterbug. You’ll be begging for my artichoke pasta in no time.”
She laughs lightly as we get out of the car. “We’ll see.”
“I’m sure we will.” I grab the door to my home, holding it open for her, then flicking on the interior lights. Once inside, her gaze lingers on the hoodies hanging on the mudroom hooks, and she raises her brows slightly. “Sea Dogs fan?”
“You could say that,” I say.
“Same,” she replies.
That’s a relief. Maybe she’s known I play all along but hasn’t wanted to make a thing of it. Fine by me. I untie my boots, and she slips off her shoes, following me into the living room, her eyes widening just a bit as she looks around at the open-floor plan, with the kitchen spilling into the living room. The open layout, eco-friendly furniture, and minimalist decor make it feel simple but modern, and the view overlooking the water doesn’t hurt.
Here comes that awkward moment when someone realizes that I make enough money to afford a sweet place. When they become more interested in the status than the person.
But instead she says, “This is…nice. Very you.”
And that’s it. That’s all.
“Thank you. I like it here. Make yourself at home,” I say, heading to the kitchen. “Want some wine? Or beer?”
“White if you have it,” she says.
“I do,” I say, spinning around to grab a bottle from the wine fridge as she drifts over to the couch and picks up a few framed photos on the end table.
I uncork the bottle, mentally rehearsing how I’m going to bring up my career. My place doesn’t scream “hockey player”—no pucks or jerseys on display. Just doesn’t feel necessary. But dropping the intel in casual convo can get awkward and it has in the past. I’ve seen the switch flip before—someone interested in “Miles” becomes starry-eyed over “Miles the hockey player,” talking about the money or asking for tickets. And that’s the last thing I want with her.
She picks up a framed photo. “Is this your sister with the Give Plants a Chance bumper sticker on the beer tap?”
I can’t see the pic from here, but I’m sure which one it is. “Yes. That’s Charlie. She owns a punk rock vegan bar in Darling Springs.”
“And I love her already,” Leighton says, then sets it down.
“So, I’m heading out of town tomorrow,” I say, hoping to steer things that way as I bring her the glass.
She takes it with a thank you then picks up a photo of my mom and Harvey with their four Chihuahuas. And that could be a good entry. “They’re cute.”
“My mom and stepdad. They have four rescue Chihuahuas. They like to travel, and sometimes I dog-sit when I’m in town,” I say, then return to the kitchen, pulling out ingredients from the fridge. “I travel a lot for my job.”
After she takes a sip, she tilts her head thoughtfully. “Huh. That’s not typical for your line of work, is it?”
So, she doesn’t know what I do—or maybe she knows something and just doesn’t care. Kind of refreshing, really.
“Actually, it’s pretty normal,” I say, grabbing a jar of marinated artichokes and a pepper. She’s studying another photo now, the one of my brother and me at a Supernova game. Tyler’s in his game gear; I wasn’t playing that night, so I’m just in a Sea Dogs hoodie in the picture.
Her eyes flick to me, widening with recognition as she holds up a photo. “Is this you and…a Supernova?”
I smile, setting down the knife. This is the perfect moment to explain things since she seems to be a hockey fan. “Yeah, my brother’s on the Los Angeles team. I, uh…play hockey too.” I try to read her expression as she processes this.
Her face goes pale, and her gaze shifts down to the food I’m chopping on the cutting board. “You’re…not a chef?”
I frown. So there was something to her chef comment earlier. I pick up the jar of artichokes, loosening the top. “No. You called me a chef earlier. Why did you think that?”
She stares at me, her voice almost a whisper. “Birdie told me you were one—a chef.” Her voice is heavy, full of dread. “You’re not just a Sea Dogs fan,” she says, absently waving her hand to where the hoodies hang. “You play for Noah McBride?”
I blink. I didn’t expect her to jump straight to the coach. “Yes. Are you a big fan of his?”
Only that hardly adds up. He played more than a decade ago.
“You could say that,” she says, her voice tight. “He’s my dad.”
The jar of artichokes slips from my hand, hitting the floor with a clatter. For the first time all day, I have no words.