27. Amelia
TWENTY-SEVEN
AMELIA
Me
Secret of the day?
GE
Look at you initiating the secrets! I’m so proud!
I should have thought this through. I don’t have enough juicy gossip in my life, and I’m wondering if I need some more adventure.
Me
Adventure is always good.
GE
Okay. This might be a cop out, but I don’t care. My secret is that I’m excited to see you.
Me
I’m excited to see you too.
GE
Yeah?
Me
Yeah.
Pick me up in thirty minutes?
GE
Your chariot awaits!
“DC is significantly better than Baltimore,” Grant says when I climb in his car down the street from our team hotel.
“I like Baltimore.” I smile and buckle my seatbelt, turning to face him. “Hello, Everett.”
“Hi, Amelia.” He reaches over and taps his fingers on my forearm. I never thought I’d welcome contact from someone so willingly, but with him, I savor his touch through my sweater. “It’s good to see you.”
“You too.” The small swoop in my stomach at the sight of him has me shifting in my seat. “You look good. Healthy.”
“No broken noses, and I still have all my teeth.” He turns the radio down, a sigh loosening from his chest. “I have some bad news.”
My mind races to worst-case scenarios.
One of his teammates found out we’re spending time together.
His phone has been hacked, and all our messages were leaked.
He started dating someone, and this is the last time we’ll be able to grab food together.
“You do?” I rest my hands in my lap, nervous to hear the rest. “What’s going on?”
“I just found out Pete’s Café is closed because of an electrical issue.” Grant’s shoulders slump forward with disappointment. “But I have an idea that might save the day.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“We can make our own subs at my place. I know what you’re going to say,” he rushes to add when I open my mouth. “Boundaries. Perceptions. The good news is my building is private, and no one will see you coming or going.”
“Why do I feel like there’s more to this plan?” I ask, biting back a smile.
“Because there is. After we eat, I thought I could convince you to hit the ice with me.” He’s practically vibrating as he says it. “I’m doing the Skills competition during All-Star Weekend, and my one-timers could use some work.”
“I saw the announcement that you made the roster.” It’s my turn to touch his arm. Smooth, warm skin. Fairer than the photos he sent me over the summer. “Congratulations. Is it your first All-Star Weekend?”
“Yup. I want to make a good impression. That’s where you come in.”
Telling him we can raincheck is the safest plan, but the day he laid out sounds nice. Perfect, even. Food, skating, coaching. Hanging out with a friend and having a good time. Those are some of my favorite things, and my lips twitch as my competitive side rises to the surface.
There’s nothing romantic about kicking his ass.
“I’ll help, but only if you promise not to be too disappointed when I beat you during a shootout,” I say.
“You’re mighty confident for someone who said my stick handling has improved.” He taps the accelerator, heading down the road. “First stop is the grocery store near my place. Their premade meatballs are fantastic, and their marinara sauce is some of the best I’ve ever had.”
“Sounds great.” I lean my elbow on the center console, tipping my chin his way. “Gosh. I’ve missed seeing you, Everett. How have you been?”
“I’ve missed seeing you too.” His sunglasses slide down his nose when he looks at me at a red light.
“And I’ve been good. We’ve started the season strong.
I’m with my boys every night. You know when you’re young and dreaming about what it’s like to be a grown up?
I really never thought I could have all of this, but here we are.
” Grant laughs, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. “Enough about me. How have you been?”
“Wonderful. Busy, but in a fulfilling way. I’ve done some podcasts and interviews. I’m feeling comfortable in my coaching role while also doing what I can to make myself an even better leader. I’m in a good spot.”
“I love hearing that.” He flashes me another smile. “You deserve to be happy.”
We haven’t seen each other in person since spring last year, but our conversation picks up without missing a beat.
I ask about his sister. He asks about Lainey and Sienna.
I mention that his hair is longer. He hands me his phone and lets me swipe through the photos from the team’s Halloween party where he dressed up like a crop top-wearing cowboy.
“I don’t know if I can pull off that look,” he says around a laugh. “But the hat was cool as hell.”
After a quick stop at the grocery store, Grant parks his car in an underground garage.
“I’m on the eighteenth floor,” he says, tapping the button to call the elevator. “Which means you’re only a few minutes away from delicious food.”
“Thank god. I’m close to withering away over here.” I gesture to the plastic bags he’s holding. “Do you want help carrying anything?”
“I appreciate the offer, but I’m capable of lifting things heavier than a jar of marinara sauce.” The elevator arrives, and we step inside. I swear his eyes sweep over my waist and hips when he says, “My height doesn’t determine my strength, Amelia.”
I’m grateful for the air I gulp down when we get to his floor. He leads me to his door and taps his key fob against the lock, nudging it open with his hip.
“Wow.” I glance around the foyer. “This is cozy.”
“Do you mean small and boring?” He kicks off his sneakers and pushes them to the wall with his foot. “It’s not a lot of space. Sorry I’m not in a penthouse.”
“Why would you apologize for where you live? It’s inviting. Look at the pictures on the wall!” I point to the framed photos of an empty hockey arena. “Way more personable than a modern sculpture of an animal’s ass.”
“Can’t say animal asses do it for me.” Grant bursts out laughing and starts down the hall. “Way too formal.”
I unzip my boots and set them next to his shoes to follow behind him, but I freeze when I see the light gray sweatpants he’s wearing. I was too distracted in the store to notice them, but now that things are quieter, all I can process is how the material clings to his body.
Speaking of asses.
I hate myself when my gaze inevitably drops to his backside. Years of playing hockey has sculpted his ass into something I know is gloriously muscular, and it’s unfair how good he looks while dressed so casually.
“I like your kitchen,” I say when I catch up to him. “Plenty of space for people to come over and mingle.”
“We had a book club meeting here in October. Since Mav and Emmy are out in the suburbs now, we started rotating who hosts each month.” Grant puts the bags on the counter and heads for the pantry.
He slips a pink apron over his head—one that says kiss the cook across the front—and tosses one to me.
“I know how messy you are. Better put that on so you don’t ruin your shirt. ”
“Good idea.” I tie it around my waist. “I’m not sure I own one apron, and yet you have two. Why am I not surprised?”
“Hudson’s personal chef got all of us aprons for Christmas. It’s motivated me to cook more.” He laughs and preheats the oven. “Judging by your lack of aprons, I’m guessing you don’t do much cooking at home.”
“I try to when I’m not on the road. Arena food isn’t nearly as good as the salmon I pop in the air fryer.
” I point to the counter, and Grant nods.
I hop on the ledge of the marble, swinging my legs while he pulls out the jar of marinara.
“I have been known to make a Taco Bell run when I have no energy to cook.”
“She’s a culinary aficionado folks,” Grant teases. “Tell me your preferences that don’t include fast food or meatball subs.”
“I’m a big fan of pasta. Pancakes too.”
“We do have a habit of seeing each other in Italian restaurants.” The meatballs go in the oven, and he drapes a dish towel over his shoulder. “What about sushi? Greek food? You told me you liked Indian food.”
“I did?” I blink at him. “When?”
“A while ago. The first time we went to Pete’s, actually.”
“And you remember that? That was years ago.”
“What I told you in Vegas is still true.” Grant steps closer. With his eyes on me, he turns the top of the jar of sauce. He pops it open with an easy motion of his wrist. “I remember everything, friend.”
The word is a goddamn taunt. He’s showing me he’s better than any other friend I’ve had, and he might be right.
It’s not the first time he’s brought up something I’ve mentioned offhandedly. I don’t know how he pulls these memories out of the dredges of his mind, but when he does, I feel special. Like he’s paying attention to every nonimportant detail I’ve ever said, and no one has done that for me before.
“You should do something with that jar before it spills everywhere,” I say.
“There’s nothing wrong with a little mess. That’s the motto you live by, right?” A smirk, the curve of a dimple on a chiseled jawline that could be cut from glass. “But, fine. We’ll keep the messes to a minimum.”
We move around each other in the kitchen, warming up the sauce, toasting the bread, melting the cheese.
His fingers brush against mine when he hands me a plate, and my body gets hot all over.
At the table, we knock our sandwiches together and take a bite at the same time, our groans coming out in unison as we swallow.
“I’m not a guy with a big ego, but that is a fucking good sandwich,” he says.
“I’m going to lick my plate clean, and you’re not allowed to judge me,” I say.
“This is a safe space.” Grant’s voice is muffled, and when I look up at him, I find his hands covered in marinara sauce. “Lick away.”
“Don’t make me choke! I want to savor this delicious meal, not be sent to the hospital.”
“This would be a good way to go, wouldn’t it? I’d make sure you were buried with a meatball necklace and a jar of marinara.”
“Unbelievable. I’d also need a baguette.”
“There’s one final touch.” It’s his turn to cough, laughter rippling through him while he tries to take a bite of his food. “You’ll be draped in a cloak of melted provolone cheese.”
We barely get through the rest of the meal without being hit by another round of giggles. He’s unabashed with his display of emotion, not afraid to drop his head back and laugh with his whole body. It’s comfortable, familiar, and by the time I finish my food, my stomach muscles hurt.
“I know what your plan is, Everett.” I wipe my fingers and toss my napkin on my empty plate. “You wanted me to stuff my face so you could have the advantage on the ice.”
“If that was the plan, why did I push myself to the point of nausea?” He drapes an arm over the chair next to his. “I’m going to need a wheelbarrow to get me to the rink.”
“Remind me why your idea of a day off consists of doing the thing you do every other day of your life?”
“Because I don’t want to make a fool of myself in Madison Square Garden next month. The other guys in the Skills event are great players, and I’d really like it if I didn’t get my ass kicked on national television.”
“You can’t forget the prize money,” I say. “The Skills event winner gets a million bucks.”
“A nice perk,” he agrees. “But the pride would mean more. Getting the chance to make a name for myself as someone other than that guy who plays behind Maverick Miller on the Stars would be fun.”
“Well, Grant Everett.” I stand and bring our plates to the sink. When I glance at him over my shoulder, his eyes jump from my backside to my face. Crimson floods his cheeks, and I pretend like I didn’t see him checking me out the way I did to him not too long ago. “We better get to work.”