21. Amelia
TWENTY-ONE
AMELIA
I shouldn’t be surprised when my phone rings again and Grant’s name flashes across the screen. It’s way too early, but I’m already smiling when I pick up the FaceTime call.
“How are you still awake?” I roll onto my side, noticing how much quieter this call is from the first one of the night. “It’s five in the morning.”
“Love is keeping me going.” He sways to the left, and elevator doors close behind him. “I’m at my hotel, but I have to be quiet. I’m staying on the same floor as Coach, and he can’t know I’m getting back hours after curfew. Shhh.”
“That’s not obvious at all.” I laugh when he rests his head against the metal wall behind him. “Did you have a good night?”
“It was the best night. But you know what? Professional sports leagues kind of suck.”
“Are these drunk musings?”
“I’m not drunk.” His neck tendons extend when he swallows. A giggle slips out of him. “Okay. I’m drunk.”
“But at least you’re subtle about it. Tell me why the leagues suck.”
“Because I’m a guy, right? And my whole life growing up, I was told I can’t show emotion. There’s no crying in hockey, blah, blah, blah.” He waves his hand in front of his face then gasps. “Whoa. Fingers are weird.”
“So weird,” I agree.
I haven’t been able to stop smiling despite running on fumes. After we hung up earlier, it was impossible to fall asleep. I’d lain awake, afraid that he’d pass out or choke on his own vomit. Nervous he’d fall off a curb, break his ankle, and be done for the season.
I’ve always been an over-worrier when it comes to my friends, the one who waits up until I get a text letting me know they made it home okay. Grant is firmly in that category now, and I care about his well-being.
Existential conversations about the purpose of our appendages and a waning intoxicated buzz are better than hearing he’s in a ditch somewhere, and for the first time all night, I relax.
“Anyway.” He sighs. “Like, tonight? Tonight I was with my best friends. They were so happy and excited to celebrate, and I was so happy. So what if I cried a little? So what if I told them I loved them, because life is short, you know? Like, if I die tomorrow, I don’t want anyone to doubt how I feel about them.
I don’t care if they give me piggy back rides and hold my hand when I can’t walk straight.
But other people do. It’s bullshit,” he declares, and the last two syllables slur around each other.
“I’m sensitive and soft, and this world sucks a lot of the time. ”
“That’s a gift, Grant. Men should be allowed to tell their friends they love them.”
“I knew you’d understand.” The elevator doors open. Grant sticks his head out. “Shhh. Coach is nearby.”
I bite my bottom lip as he stumbles down the hall with surprising grace from a guy totally inebriated.
He reaches his door, tapping his key card against it and slipping inside.
A wince crosses his face when it slams shut behind him.
There’s another round of giggles, and all of this is hysterical to me.
“Whoops,” he whispers from the confines of his room. “That was loud.”
“Are you sharing a room with anyone?” I ask, hoping he won’t have to end the call right away.
“Nope! I got lucky tonight and have my own room.”
“That’s nice. Are you going to be able to sleep?”
“I don’t know. I’m still amped up from being around my friends.” He drops his hotel key on a table and disappears out of the frame. When he reappears, he’s pulling his shirt over his head and running his fingers through his rumpled hair. “Do you have a lot of friends?”
“A few.” I yawn. I prop myself up with an elbow and keep my eyes on his face. Gawking over his body when he doesn’t know he’s stripping isn’t fair, but fuck if I didn’t recognize that he’s a beautiful specimen. “I keep my circle small. I’m protective, I guess.”
“Of?”
“Of who I am as a person and not wanting people to judge me. I can be intense. I’m competitive. I want to be successful. It gets mistaken as bitchiness.” I brush my hair out of my eyes. “I keep walls up so people don’t get too close to me.”
“I’d never say you were those things.” He pauses. “Hardworking. Beautiful. Smart. That’s what you are. Definitely not bitchy. Fuck the people who think that.”
My heart flutters in my chest.
Beautiful.
When was the last time someone called me something so kind?
It’s been years, at least.
I like how it sounds.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
The moment breaks when he meanders through his room. I should be hanging up; it’s ridiculously early. I need to be at the arena in four hours. But I find myself rooted in place. Like I want to make sure he sets his alarm and makes it to bed without passing out and hitting his head on an end table.
“Look at that bed. I can’t wait to sleep,” he says.
“What time do you have to be up?”
“Bus for the airport leaves at two. Hang on. I’m taking off my pants, and I’m going to leave my phone here so I don’t flash you. That wouldn’t be cool.”
Grant leans his phone against a lamp and walks away.
He might not be in the picture and I might be far away, but it feels like I’m there too.
The glide of his zipper is magnified. Denim hits the floor, and I hear rustling through a suitcase.
Grant’s shadow is cast across the carpet, shoulders leaning forward before standing up straight.
Footsteps tell me he’s moving farther into the room.
The sound of running water fills the silence, and the low hum of him singing echoes from the bathroom.
I blink, and he’s there again, perfectly focused in the center of my screen. He tilts his phone, and I see a basic white T-shirt that stretches across his chest. There are low-slung athletic shorts and glasses that slip down his nose.
“I’m back,” he says. “I remembered to take out my contacts, and that deserves a gold star.”
“Is your vision bad?” I ask.
“It’s not great. And when I’m drunk? Forget it. There’s already two of everything. I don’t need to confuse myself more.”
“My older sister refused to wear her glasses to school for three weeks when she was in the eighth grade because she wanted my parents to get her contacts. She literally can’t see without any sort of aid, but her holdout worked. She had an appointment the next day.”
“Tell me about her.” Grant climbs on his bed and rests his head on the stack of pillows. “Is it just you two?”
“No. There are three of us. All girls. My older sister has two kids and teaches seventh grade science.”
“Some of the kids who come to the team’s summer camps are in middle school, and they tease me more than anyone did when I was in school. Good for her.”
“Not for the faint of heart, that’s for sure.”
“What does your other sister do?”
“She’s a scientist who works in cancer research.”
“Jesus.” He lets out a soft chuckle. “Your family is talented.”
“Imagine my mother’s disappointment when I said I was going to study Communications at Wisconsin and play college hockey.” I laugh. “I’m the underachiever.”
“Nah. Your creative outlet is just different from theirs. That’s not underachieving. That’s knowing your strengths. Why go for a job in a field where you know you’d be miserable?” Grant pulls back his sheets. He yawns, covering his mouth with his hand. “How many years between you and your sisters?”
“Sasha is ten years older than me, and Stephanie is seven. I wasn’t part of my parents’ plan, and sometimes I wonder if that’s why I try so hard and refuse to give up even if my dreams might be too big.
I lived in the shadows of my sisters for years, and I want to make a name for myself.
It’s like I wasn’t good enough on my own, so I had to do something outside the box. ”
“I don’t like when you talk like that.” Grant frowns. His forehead wrinkles, and his nose does a sad scrunch. “Like you’re not one of the most important people in the world.”
“I don’t think I am.”
“You definitely are. To me, at least.”
“You’re too nice to me,” I whisper. “And I’m not sure if I’m deserving of it.”
“Guess that’s why we ran into each other at that Italian restaurant three years ago.” His grin is sleep-drenched. Heavy eyelids start to shutter closed. “So I could be the one to remind you. If that’s okay with you.”
“Yeah.” There’s more I want to say, but it’s stuck halfway up my throat. “That would be okay.”
“Good.” Grant rolls onto his back, an arm draped over his face. “I’m exhausted.”
“That’s what happens when you party all night. You should get some sleep.”
“Yes, Coach.” Another yawn. He’s ridiculously cute. “I’m going to close my eyes.”
“Sleep well, Grant.”
“You too, Amelia.” His sigh is content, light. “I’ll text you later.”
“Looking forward to it,” I say, and when I hang up, I realize I really am.
By mid-afternoon, I need a break from the game film I’ve been watching. I stand from my desk and stretch my back, scooping up my phone so I can send Grant a text. He’s probably heading to the airport with the team, and I have the urge to check on him.
Me
How are you feeling?
Three dots pop up in our text thread like he’s been waiting for me to reach out. His response is immediate.
GE
Like someone is taking a baseball bat to my head. And my stomach. And my back.
Me
It doesn’t get any better when you’re older. Enjoy your youth.
GE
Thanks for the room service, by the way. That was nice of you.
Me
Figured it was the least my geriatric, sober ass could do. I remember the days when I would drink too much and suffer the next morning. Happy to help in any way I can :)
GE
I bothered the hell out of you last night, didn’t I? I’m so sorry.
I sit back down. My fingers fly across the screen.
Me
I wouldn’t have answered if I didn’t want to talk.
GE
Just glad I didn’t act like a total idiot.
Someone from the athletic training staff passes my door and waves. I frown at Grant’s last message, typing out a response.
Me
You definitely weren’t an idiot.
GE
Good. I know I can be a lot sometimes. Too goofy. Too talkative.
Me
I like talkative.
Also, you probably don’t remember much about last night, and that’s totally understandable. But I wanted to say thanks for being so nice. I appreciate you.
It takes him a minute to answer. I bet he has to put his phone away for takeoff, but a message finally comes through. When it does, my skin burns hot.
GE
I remember everything with you, and I meant everything I said.
I set my phone down and scoot it away. It’s a live wire I’m not sure I want to touch. He doesn’t text a second time and the last message sits there, imprinting itself in my memory.
“Amelia.” Jude appears in the doorway to my office. “You okay?”
“What?” I blink, pulled from my trance. “Sorry. Distracted.”
“Do you have a minute to chat with me and Elliot? I’ve been thinking about a few line switches, and I want your opinion.”
“Sure.” I pop to my feet, locking my phone and shoving it in my desk drawer. Out of sight, out of mind. “I’m happy to.”
I follow him down the hall knowing this—the job, the career I’ve sacrificed things for—is the most important part of my life. Nice words from hockey players will come and go, but my legacy is forever. I need to remember that so I don’t get swept up in whatever the hell is jumbling my brain.
Being vulnerable with Grant was a mistake, and not one I’m going to make again.