33. Amelia
THIRTY-THREE
AMELIA
Grant is giddy when we slide into a booth at a diner away from the touristy part of town.
“Look at the license plates on the wall. And the knickknacks! How did you find a place like this?” he asks.
“I guess it’s time to tell you my secret of the day.” I hide my face with my menu, hoping he can’t see the way my cheeks turn bright red. “I do a lot of research when it comes to pancakes. My goal in life is to find the best place in every city.”
“Why are you embarrassed by that?” Grant pulls the menu from my hold with a frown. “Are you not allowed to be excited about the things that make you happy?”
“I’m used to dulling it down, I guess.”
I leave off the rest: that I hide parts of myself around men. The few that make it past a date or two don’t understand the little things that bring me joy. Why should I care about syrup flavors when I make six-figures to coach a sport?
But here is Grant, willing and eager to listen to whatever I have to say, and it’s time to admit to myself the other secret of the day, the one I’ve been fighting hard to ignore but coming up short: I’m attracted to this man.
Not a stupid, he’s cute, I hope he notices me crush or in a I had a drink too many and he gave me attention so I touched myself kind of way.
It’s visceral and intense. Deep longing that’s been building for weeks—months, if I’m being honest with myself—and I’m terrified for what that means going forward.
“Hey.” His foot nudges mine under the table. “Are you okay?”
No. You’re the first and only man I’ve ever wanted to spend time with, and discovering this over something as mundane as pancakes is fucking unsettling.
“I’m fine,” I say, but the spike in my pulse tells me I’m a goddamn liar.
“Do me a favor, Amelia.” He sets the menu down and rests his elbow on the table, leaning forward.
“Don’t dull down the things that make you happy when you’re around me, okay?
I want to see them. Pancakes. Jewelry. Whatever else you have up your sleeve.
I like learning about you.” When I don’t answer, Grant lowers his chin and gives me a stern glance. “Okay?”
“Okay.” I bob my head, flustered by the seriousness of his tone. “I won’t.”
“Good.” He brightens and leans back in the booth. “Now that we got out of the way, tell me about your perfect pancake. Thick and fluffy? Thinner and lighter like a crepe? I want all the details.”
“Thick and fluffy, and this place is the best.” My smile is easy. It always is around him. “I drove past here on a whim, and I’ve been hooked ever since.”
“High expectations. I can’t wait to see what we’re working with, but I trust you, Green.”
Twenty minutes later, we have full plates in front of us. Grant passes the syrup my way, and he doesn’t comment when I douse my pancakes until they’re drenched.
“Thoughts?” I ask, taking a bite.
“You know the first time you tried Pete’s and it was basically a religious experience with angels singing and the heavens parting?
” His eyes flutter closed, long eyelashes fanning out over the tops of his cheeks.
He sighs, loose and content, and drops his fork.
“That’s what I’m going through right now. Tears are about to fall.”
“I’ll respect your privacy as you sort through those emotions.” I grin and stab another bite. “But please know if you cry, I will document it with a photo.”
“Blackmail. You’re cruel, Amelia.” He blinks, gaze settling on me. “Have you found a pancake anywhere in the country that’s as good as this one? If so, you need to tell me the name. I’m flying there tomorrow morning.”
“No.” I can’t stop smiling. “So far, this is the winner.”
“Okay. Well. My agent is going to get a call about a possible trade.”
“Or, instead of uprooting our lives for the sake of food, we strike up a deal. You’ll be my sandwich provider. I’ll be your pancake provider.” Our knees knock under the table, and I pull my leg away. “We’ll come here next time you’re in Denver, and you’ll take me to Pete’s whenever I’m in DC.”
“Or Baltimore. Aren’t you lucky there are two teams within driving distance of sandwich nirvana?”
“So lucky,” I say, but there’s a piece he’s forgetting from that sentence.
Aren’t you lucky there are two teams within driving distance of sandwich nirvana we can go to together?
I shrug it off and focus my attention on my food.
“Thanks for giving up your afternoon to hang with me,” Grant says. “I’m glad I get to see you.”
“Me too. The ticket at will call is under Everett Grant—thanks for having two first names, by the way. It’s in the lower bowl, so I’m not sure how much you’re going to blend in, but it’s all I could snag last-minute.”
“I have a fix for that. Fake facial hair.”
“Excuse me?” I choke. “What are you talking about?”
“Grant Everett doesn’t have facial hair, but Everett Grant has a mustache. And sideburns. Not a damn person in that arena will know it’s me.”
“Why the hell would someone own fake facial hair?”
“Because my teammates and I need to get a life. Ethan wanted to see what he’d look like with a goatee—terrifying, by the way—and we all bought a pack to try out different styles. The only one who can pull anything off is Liam. That goalie looks sexy as hell with a beard.”
“And you just… carry sideburns around with you?”
“You don’t keep those in your hockey bag with your sticks and skates?” Grant laughs. “Nah. I thought I might need to disguise myself, so they were my contingency plan in case I didn’t have a seat in the upper bowl. Glad I brought them.”
“You’re going to look ridiculous,” I say.
“I know. But at least I get to be there with you.”
Sharp, sweet warmth settles over me. It stays there the rest of our meal, aided by the second round of food we order, splitting the pancake in half. We talk about everything and nothing, from how his sister is doing to what I’m planning for my first week in my new position.
By the time we finish, I’m full and happy. Unable to stop smiling when I stand.
“I’m going to wash my hands, then we’ll swing by my place before I drop you at your hotel on my way to the arena,” I say. “Be back in a minute.”
“Take your time,” he says. “You might have to roll me out of here.”
When I finish in the bathroom, I find Grant still in the booth with a pen caught between his teeth. The notebook he was holding at the airport is open on the table, and I try to read over his shoulder.
“What’s that?” I ask, and he jumps. He covers the papers marked up by handwriting with his palm. “Totally normal response, by the way.”
“It’s nothing. Not important.” His hand stays in place until he can slide the notebook off the table and slam it shut. “Record keeping. My expenses.”
“You keep track of your expenses in a notebook? When there are ways to do that digitally?”
“I’m old-school.”
“Is that why you’re using a sparkly gel pen?”
“Everyone needs some pizazz in their life.”
I know he’s hiding something, but there’s no time to question it. The notebook gets tucked away. Grant stands, gesturing toward the exit, and we make the drive to my apartment.
“It would make me more comfortable if we went in separately,” I say after parking in the garage under my building. “There might be people taking the elevator up. A lot of the tenants know me, which means they know you.”
“How about I wait to go up after you? What floor are you on?”
“The sixth. I’ll meet you outside the elevator.”
“This is why the fake facial hair is so clutch. Easy to blend in.” He hops out of the car, shutting the door behind him. “I’ll count to one hundred then head up.”
I wait for him upstairs and try to remember the last time someone other than Sienna or Lainey came over to my place. Nothing comes to mind, and I wonder if that means something.
I feel safe with him?
I like that he knows me?
I want to know what he looks like in my space?
Grant finds his way to my floor, and I unlock my door to let us in. Inside my apartment, he kicks off his shoes and puts his hands on his hips.
“You look like you have thoughts,” I say, and he waves me off.
“Shhh. This is the first time I’m seeing your place, and I want to take it all in.”
He walks down the hall that leads to the living room, letting out a soft hum as he moves from the blankets draped over the couch to the coasters on the coffee table. He runs his fingers along the framed photos on the wall, the ones from my Wisconsin days with the championship trophy over my head.
After a peek at the guest bathroom and kitchen, Grant plops on the couch in the living room.
“Just like I thought it would be. Neat. Orderly, but still very welcoming. Personable too.” His eyes slide over to me. “You don’t show this side of yourself to people very often, do you?”
“No.” I perch on the edge of the cushion. Not too relaxed, not too open. “I don’t.”
“That’s a shame.” His gaze slips to the curtains, to the books arranged in alphabetical order on the shelves. “I like this side of you. I like knowing there’s more to Amelia Green than the hardworking woman that meets the eye.”
I’ve revealed myself to Grant, and he’s sticking around.
He’s here on a day off because he wants to celebrate my success, not dim it, and that has to mean something.
I want to linger on the importance of it.
I want to daydream about where something could go, but I can’t.
Not when my career is on the cusp of taking off, and I meant what I told him all those months ago.
I’m selfish. I care about myself and my future first and foremost, and whatever spark that’s pulling me in has to stop.
It has to stop now.
“I need to get ready,” I say. “Forty-five minutes, and I’ll be good to go.”
“Sure. Take your time. I’ve got nothing planned before the game besides chilling at the hotel. I’ll wait here.”
“Cool.” I stand, shifting toward the hallway. “Make yourself comfortable.”
“Hey.” Grant puts a hand on my arm. Fingers press into my wrist, and I don’t want to pull away from the slow drag of his touch.
“You’re going to do great tonight. It’s a new role, but it’s something you already do so well.
I can’t believe I get to be here to watch you in your first game as an associate coach.
You’re deserving of this, Amelia. Go take what’s yours. ”
I hold that with me when I boldly add a pair of silver hoops to my outfit and pick a deep shade of red for my lips. It follows me to the hotel where I drop him off and all the way to the arena. By the time we take the ice, I’m lighter. More relaxed, and ready to kick ass.
“Huddle up,” Jude calls out after the player’s introductions.
“You all know it’s Coach Green’s first night leading you as an associate coach, and she’s covering for me on Tuesday while I’m away for a family matter.
I’m going to turn this speech over to her so she can start us off on the right foot. Coach?”
“Thanks.” I smile at the guys surrounding me.
“San Diego thinks they have our number after beating us in the Western Conference finals last season and twice already this year. But none of that counts tonight. We have a clean slate, and I’ve been impressed with two things over the last couple of weeks: the odd man rush you all are utilizing to push into our opponent’s attacking zones and our plus/minus numbers.
You’re helping each other on defense. You’re anticipating rebounds and taking the time to make an extra pass for a better shot on goal.
Let’s keep those focuses throughout tonight. ”
“Great way to get this party started, Coach.” Lenny grins at me and puts his palm out in front of him. “Everyone better finish the night with a positive number, or we’re all doing an extra twenty laps at practice on Monday. Hands in. I want to hear teamwork on three. One. Two. Three.”
“Teamwork,” they all yell, knocking their sticks together.
The first line takes the ice, and Jude and I stand behind the bench in our usual spots. I haven’t let myself look for Grant in the crowd, but I know he’s here. I can feel his attention on me from his seat, and it makes me stand straighter.
“I’m taking a back seat tonight,” Jude murmurs as the puck drops. “I want you calling the shots. Line changes and ice time. All the decision making and the postgame evals.”
“Does that mean I get to earn your salary?” I ask, and he barks out a laugh.
“I’ll see what I can do.”
I take Jude’s challenge seriously, splitting my time between correcting technical errors when the guys are on the bench and praising the good defensive effort that stops San Diego from scoring through the first two and a half periods.
I’ve never been someone who likes to showboat, but our two-goal lead with six minutes to go would be more fun if we stretched it to three.
“Lenny,” I call out when the third line is on the ice. I walk over to him and lean forward so he can hear me over the crowd. “Do you feel like going for a hat trick?”
“Shit, Coach. You want to put the dagger in them?” he asks, and I nod.
“Yup.” I grab the closest whiteboard. “How about a between-the-legs shot?”
“I’d say that’s pretty ballsy, but I remember how much it sucked to lose in the conference final last May.” He grins and tosses his water bottle to the guy sitting next to him. “Let’s give it a whirl.”
“Only if you see the opening. Their goalie has experience, and we shouldn’t assume he’s going to fall for the deke. If Henderson and Billings clear the slot, I want you to go for it.”
“Yo, Billy,” Lenny yells, getting his teammate’s attention to pass along the play. “Need you to clear out some defenders for me.”
With five minutes left, I watch the guys put the plan into motion. I nod when Henderson and Billings draw the defenders out, leaving Lenny one-on-one with San Diego’s goalie. He releases the puck with an open blade, deking out his opponent and landing the shot in the upper corner of the net.
The crowd screams. Hats fly onto the ice from the stands, and I give Jude a high five. With the arena celebrating, I chance a look at Grant’s seat, freezing when my eyes land on him.
Nineteen thousand, nine hundred and ninety nine people are looking at Lenny after his goal, but Grant is wearing fake facial hair and absurd sideburns, and he’s only looking at me.