Chapter 22
CONNOR
Yesterday had been amazing. The Alcazar, the cathedral, dinner, not to mention the lazy afternoon sex—it was all incredible.
But when Madars emerged from the home gym after his morning workout, something was… off. I couldn’t put my finger on what it was. He wasn’t snappy or irritable, just sort of folded in on himself. Preoccupied, maybe, and not in a good way.
After he’d showered and changed into regular clothes, he joined me in the living room, where I’d been perusing social media on my phone. I lowered the phone and studied him, trying to figure out what was on his mind.
“You want to go get something to eat?” He smiled, and it was so obviously forced, it was painful to see. “Some of the cafés have great breakfast menus.”
What I wanted to do was ask him what was bothering him, but maybe that could wait until we’d both had some food and coffee. Hell, maybe the food and coffee would clear the dark clouds that seemed to be gathering above his head.
So, we walked to a café down the street for breakfast. It was the same one we’d come to yesterday before venturing out into the rest of Sevilla. The food was simple and excellent, and so cheap it felt criminal.
And the coffee? Oh, fuck, yes, come to Daddy.
Madars was often indecisive in restaurants, but that was extra pronounced this morning.
He kept turning the menu over, skimming it, turning it again, skimming it again, as if he didn’t even understand what was on it.
Eventually, he sighed and settled on a toasted baguette with tomato sauce and cheese…
the same thing he’d ordered the last time we were here.
He really was on another planet, wasn’t he?
After we’d ordered, the waiter brought us fresh-squeezed orange juice and coffee, and then we were alone again.
I didn’t let the grass grow this time.
“Hey.” I nudged Madars gently under the table. “Where are you this morning?”
He didn’t even try to dismiss the question. His shoulders sank and he exhaled, slouching as if he were barely holding himself upright. “My agent called while I was in the gym.”
My spine straightened. “Oh. Bad news?”
“No. No, not really. Just…” He wiped a hand over his face and sat back in his chair. As he turned his glass between his fingers, his expression contemplative, he said, “He’s been working on my extension with Genève. And there are a couple of other Swiss teams interested in me.”
I studied him. “That’s… a good thing, isn’t it?”
“It is.” He sighed as if it absolutely wasn’t. “It’s just depressing because I had that hope for a little while about playing in North America again.”
“Ooh. Yeah.” I grimaced. “That really sucks.”
Madars nodded. Bringing his glass up to his lips, he murmured, “Just my stupid luck getting hurt at the Games right in front of the scout, I guess.”
“Damn. They’re really going to pass you up because of that? It wasn’t exactly a career ender.”
“No, but they’ll want to see me actually return to game play before they take a chance on me.
And if they don’t sign me now, then I’ll re-sign with Switzerland, probably for two or three years, so…
” Madars sighed and rubbed the back of his neck.
He’d spelled that part out before, and why it wasn’t ideal if he wanted to get back into the NAL.
I nodded. “I’m sorry. That sucks. It’s still possible, though. Down the line.”
“I know,” he whispered. “Anything could happen. It’s just… hard not to think the ship is sailing.”
“I get that.” I touched his forearm but didn’t let the contact linger. Not out in public. “I’d be bummed out over it, too.”
He gazed at me across the table, and a small, tentative smile played at his lips. “Maybe everything works out the way it’s supposed to. I wish it had worked out differently, but if I were heading to North America next season, we couldn’t…” He gestured at me, then himself.
My heart fluttered even as a pang of guilt prodded my insides. “That’s true. And I’m glad we’re doing this. I just wish it wasn’t because… you know…”
He waved that away. “I still have hockey. It won’t be in the NAL, but I’m still playing.” He half-shrugged. “I can’t complain too much.”
“True. How is your knee today?”
“Eh, it’s a little achy from the cobblestones yesterday, but…” He half-shrugged. “It’s fine.” With a dry laugh, he added, “I’m still salty that Genève didn’t hold on just a little longer, I could have joined them in the postseason.”
I chuckled. “Those bastards.”
“Right? Fuck them.”
We both laughed.
“Anyway.” He smiled with a little more feeling. “I’ll be okay. Even if the NAL never looks my direction again, I still get to play hockey professionally.” He ran his toe along the inside of my ankle. “And I have you. I can’t really complain too much.”
“Well, let’s see what you say after you’ve lived with me for a while.”
“To be fair,” he said, eyes dancing with mischief, “I have lived with you. And that was when you were an obnoxious teenager.”
“Hey, fuck you!” I laughed. “Act like you weren’t an obnoxious teenager. I mean, you were a hockey player, for fuck’s sake.”
“Hey! What’s that supposed to mean?”
We exchanged playful glares, then both chuckled and went for our coffees.
I felt bad that his career had hit this bump—that the opportunity to play in the NAL had been so close, only to slip through his fingers—but I was glad to see him smiling and coming back to life.
The conversation with his agent had probably just bummed him out.
As we drank our coffee, shot the shit, and—a few minutes later—ate our breakfast, he was definitely returning to his usual self.
Hopefully the clouds would completely scatter, and his mood would continue to get lighter.
He was on vacation, after all. And he was Madars.
Vacation or no, he deserved to be happy all the time.
For the next few weeks, as much as I was able, I was bound and determined to make sure he was happy all the time.