18. Amelia
EIGHTEEN
AMELIA
Me
I’ll be down in five minutes. Sorry!
GE
Not a lot of hustle from the woman who says she’s been craving this sandwich for weeks.
Me
Ouch. Shots fired.
GE
Kidding :). I’m around the corner in a navy blue BMW X1.
Me
Do you have one of those vanity plates that says HOCKEYBOY on it?
GE
Thought about getting GMON$Y, but I decided flying under the radar is best.
Me
That wouldn’t have been douchey at all.
GE
Exactly why I didn’t get it lol.
Take your time. I have heated seats. Just got off the phone with my agent. Life is good.
The wind is whipping when I find Grant’s car a half a block away from the hotel. I shiver and climb inside, glad for the promised heated seats that greet me when I settle on the leather.
“I’m very glad I didn’t walk.” I brush my hair out of my eyes and turn to face him. “Hi.”
“Hi, Amelia.” He grins, all boyish charm and dimpled cheek. “Good to see you.”
“It’s good to see you too,” I say, and, gosh, it is.
Grant has this easy charisma about him. It’s not arrogant or boastful.
It’s softer, sweeter. When he’s around, you’re engulfed in warmth.
In the way his eyes twinkle and how he turns the radio down so he can hear me.
It’s carefree. Fucking magnetic, and I can’t help but match his smile with one of my own.
“How’re things?” he asks. His phone lights up three times in quick succession, but he ignores it to look me. Unwavering, undivided attention. My heart skips a beat. “Besides your near-death flight experience, of course.”
“Minus the traumatic plane ride, things are good. We’ve had a solid start to the year.
I redecorated my apartment this summer. How about you?
” My eyes sweep over his face, to the fading red mark on his cheek and the thin gold chain tucked beneath the collar of his pullover.
That’s new. “You look like you haven’t been roughed up too badly this season. ”
“Except for the shiner I earned three nights ago. It was worth it. Collins, who plays for the Minneapolis Eagles, was chirping about my lettuce.” He runs a hand through his hair.
Longer than the last time I saw him, it brushes the back of his neck.
“I made sure he had a nice moment with the boards, and he paid me back with a stick to the face. Pretty fair, I’d say. ”
“You all fight about hair? And people say women are emotional.” I snort, buckling my seatbelt. “How was your call with your agent?”
“Great.” Grant checks his mirror and merges into traffic.
“We talked about what the next five years might look like for me on and off the ice. I threw out the idea of starting a camp for kids in marginalized communities who want to learn how to skate, and he was onboard with it. Fingers crossed I sign a contract extension with the Stars at the end of next season so I can cover the costs for it.”
“I thought you said you don’t want to coach,” I tease. “A camp sounds amazing, Grant. I love that idea.”
“You mentioned starting one too. Any headway on that?”
“Not yet. Hopefully one day down the road. When I do, I’ll let you know. Our kids can scrimmage.”
“Dude. That would be sick.” He chuckles. “Is Denver still treating you well?”
“Yeah. I love the team. I love the coaching staff. I’ve been in environments where I didn’t agree with some of the processes the head coach was implementing, but Jude isn’t like that. I like him a lot, and we have a great line of communication. What about you? How’s everything going?”
“Everything is perfect.” Grant flips on his blinker. “I can’t believe this is my life. I have book club. Team dinners. I get to watch my friends fall in love and play in front of thousands of fans every night. I’m a lucky guy.”
We drive the rest of the way to the café talking about league standings and who we think will make the Four-Nations roster. His phone keeps lighting up and he keeps ignoring it, eyes on the road before occasionally shifting over to me.
“You can answer those if you want.” I gesture to his screen as we pull into the parking lot. “I won’t be offended.”
“It’s just the team chat. Most are from Ethan, which means there’s a high probability they might not be safe to open in the presence of another human being.” Grant keeps the ignition running. “I figured I’d get our food to go. It’s small in there.”
“I don’t mind going in and ordering. I’m the one holding you hostage so I can get my sandwich fix.” I hurry to unbuckle my seatbelt while he does the same. “Really. Let me.”
“I told you I had my credit card ready, Amelia. I wasn’t kidding. Meatball sub with extra parmesan, right?” he asks, already halfway out of the car. “And fries.”
“You know my order?”
“Big fan, remember?” With a wink, he shuts the door. “Be back in a few.”
I watch him stride up to the café’s door, holding it open for an elderly woman using a cane. She says something to him and he answers with a beam, still smiling when he disappears inside the small building.
I take the time he’s away to casually sleuth around his car.
I find nothing exciting besides a water bottle, a roll of stick tape, and a stack of signed trading cards in the back seat.
The radio stations he has pre-programed range from pop hits to nineties songs he wasn’t alive for.
There’s a pack of gum in the glove compartment and the vehicle registration with a listed address.
The biggest surprise is the picture tucked in the small storage space under the radio.
It’s a photograph of the DC Stars, their arms around each other in their athletic shorts and team shirts, all wearing matching grins.
I notice Grant right away, front and center on Riley Mitchell’s back and happy as a clam.
He must be that way all the time. Endlessly optimistic. Always a heartbeat away from laughing. I trace over the outline of his silhouette before putting the picture back in its place, the hint of peace washing over me as I do.
I glance around the space one more time. Everything is neater than I thought it would be, with freshly vacuumed floor mats and a new air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror. Lavender, the scent tells me, and it doesn’t feel like I’m in the car belonging to a man in his early twenties.
Ten minutes later, Grant jogs out of the café, a paper bag in his hands.
“I might have gone overboard, but there’s a reason for it,” he says, hopping in the car and shutting the door behind him.
“That bag is huge. How many people are joining us?” I ask.
“Hear me out. I got our sandwiches, then I figured I’d get you a second sandwich you can have tomorrow or the day after. While the idea of microwaved meatballs sounds slightly disgusting, trust me when I say the sub is just as good reheated.”
“Thank you.” My heart flip-flops over itself with his consideration. Goddamn him and his kindness. “I’m going to trust your judgement and give it a whirl.”
“If you get sick, I’ll accept full responsibility.” He hands over a stack of napkins, then my food. “But that’s not going to happen.”
“Fuck.” I almost whimper as I unwrap the meatball sub. There’s a beyond generous portion of parmesan on top, and I’m pretty sure I’m in heaven. “This is the best day of my life.”
“Besides this moment, what else would be the best day of your life?”
“Hang on. I need some brain power.” I take a bite and groan, not giving a damn about the sauce that stains my fingers.
A second bite follows, and I barely come up for air.
“Best day of my life? The first time I ever scored a goal in hockey. I was playing on a U8 team full of boys. My mom and some of the coaches spent weeks trying to convince me to play something else. The sport was too rough for a girl my size, they told me. When I scored that first goal, it felt like I was floating. In the grand scheme of everything I’ve done in life, it’s so insignificant.
I couldn’t tell you who was on that team’s roster or what color my jersey was.
But I remember that exact moment down to what move I used, and it was nothing but elation.
Of thinking this was something I’d be happy doing for the rest of my life despite hundreds of people telling me I can’t find joy in the impossible. ”
“Wow.” Grant stares at me like he’s hanging on to every word. Perfectly enthralled and on the edge of his seat. I wish I could explain why the attention makes me giddy. “The fact that you remember it so clearly must mean it’s special. And look at how far you’ve come! You’re a goddamn inspiration.”
“Thanks.” I hide my blush with another bite of my sandwich. “What about you? What’s the happiest day of your life?”
“Ah.” It’s his turn for crimson cheeks. He coughs, delaying his answer by opening the package of fries and setting them on the center console between us. “Probably, um, the day I was drafted by the Stars. Or when I met all the guys on the first day of training camp. Yeah. That.”
“Figured that might be the case.” I gesture to where the team photo is hiding. “I looked around while you were gone. Sorry.”
“And you didn’t find my collection of stamps and taxidermy animals? Sounds like I finally landed on a good hiding spot for them.”
“Weirdo.” I laugh and swat at him. “Not a thing about you suggests you’d ever have a dead, stuffed animal in your possession. You probably cry when you have to kill a bee.”
“Instant tears. I’m a sensitive soul.” He pops a fry in his mouth and hums. “I don’t mind that you looked around, by the way. I keep all the top secret stuff in my apartment.”
“Probably in a drawer next to your bed, huh?”
“Or the closet in the spare bedroom.”
“Oh, good call. Very unsuspecting.”
Comfortable silence, the kind that you slip into when you’re around someone who makes you feel safe, wedges its way between us.
His fingers brush against mine when we both reach for the fries at the same time, and the faint graze makes me feel like I’ve been electrocuted.
I’m hyperaware of how close our arms are and how the temperature in the car has shifted from pleasant to almost too warm.
Grant must notice it too, because he switches the heat off, replacing it with air conditioning that cools my overheated skin.
“Want to play a game?” he asks.
“Is it who can finish their sandwich faster? Because I’m kicking your ass.”
“Only because I don’t know when to shut up.” He takes a big bite of his sub, waiting until he swallows before talking again. “It’s called this or that. I ask you two things, and you decide between them without thinking.”
“Sounds dangerous.” I grin. “I’m in.”
“Hell yeah.” Grant wipes his hands. “Summer or winter?”
“Easy. Winter.”
“Hot showers or cold showers?”
“Scalding hot, and I don’t care that it’s bad for my skin.”
“Beer or wine?”
“Wine, but I love a fun cocktail when I’m out.”
“East Coast or West Coast?
“East,” I say, and I gasp. “Damn you, Everett. That was unexpected.”
“Your heart is doing the answering. I’m just asking the questions.” He closes his eyes and touches his forehead. “Hang on. I’m trying to commit these to memory.”
“Why? No one will ever care that I like Chardonnay over craft beer.”
“I care.” Grant’s eyelashes flutter open, and his gaze locks on mine. The right side of his mouth pulls up, a low laugh spilling out of him. “Oh my god. You have sauce all over your face.”
“I do not.” I sit up, checking my reflection in the rearview mirror before laughing out loud. “Holy shit. I do have sauce all over my face.”
“I should’ve grabbed a couple wipes. I didn’t think I’d be eating with a heathen. Come here.” He opens the water bottle in the cup holder and pours some on a napkin. “We’ll get you cleaned up.”
“I promise I know how to not make a mess.”
“Jury is out on that one.” Grant reaches over the center console, careful to not knock the french fries. He holds my chin between his thumb and pointer finger, turning my cheek so I’m looking away from him. “Such a messy eater.”
“Excited eater,” I counter, my breath seizing behind my ribs when he drags the napkin over my skin.
I keep my eyes on him; on the methodical way he scrubs away the mess. On the way the tip of his tongue sneaks out of his mouth when he concentrates extra hard. On how his eyebrows pull together and the delicateness behind his touch.
“Almost done,” he murmurs.
“Can’t take me anywhere.” I’m joking, trying to keep things light. The press of his fingers along the curve of my jaw is maddening. “So embarrassing.”
“Far from embarrassing. Endearing is more like it.” The grip on my chin tightens for half a beat when he turns my cheek to the other side. “There. You’re back in business.”
“I appreciate the help,” I say. “Going forward, I’ll be eating this sandwich in the privacy of my hotel room where no one can see the disastrous outcome of my enjoyment.”
“That’s for the best.” He finishes his sub with a sigh. “I’d eat one of those a day if I didn’t care about my cholesterol.”
“This will be my vice, and I’m okay with it.”
“There are worse things in life, Amelia.”
We spend too long talking. Before I know it, it’s creeping close to one in the afternoon.
Grant drops me back at my hotel with my extra sandwich and a wave.
Later that night when he scores a goal and sends the hometown crowd into a frenzy, I swear I can still feel the ghost of his fingers on my cheek.