Chapter Nineteen Randall
“Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, Creeps in this petty pace from day to day…What the fuck are you reading?” Sean asks when he looks over my shoulder from the gap between the seats.
We’re on the plane ride back to Columbus after our win in Miami. Heaven forbid I’m allowed some goddamn privacy.
“He’s trying to impress that theater chick,” Connor says while settling into his nap beside Sean.
“They’re called artists, you dimwit,” Gordon snaps from beside me.
“You don’t really understand that shit, do you?” Sean asks me. “It’s barely English.”
“English isn’t my first language and I understand what he’s saying. That’s from Macbeth,” Sergei says while clicking on his phone from across the aisle.
When he looks up at our surprised faces, he shrugs.
“What? My father sent me to boarding school in Germany. They freaking love Shakespeare in Germany.”
That piques my interest. “You’ve read this play before?”
“Sure.”
“If you’re looking for something smart to say about it,” Lance states from the aisle because he never sits down unless the seatbelt sign is on, “Google is free and way more reliable than this Russian goon.”
Sergei raises his finger to object, but then changes his mind and shrugs.
“He’s right. I don’t remember much except bits of that speech we were forced to memorize.”
“What are you guys talking about?” Logan slips into an empty seat in front of me and kneels to face backward. God, hockey players are nosy.
“Randi’s reading Shakespeare to impress a girl.”
“Never thought I’d see the day when our Randi grew out of his fuckboy phase.”
“Haha,” I say. “If you idiots are done yapping like we’re in a fucking sleepover, I’d like to return to my reading.”
“So, who is she?” Logan prompts.
“Remember the night we met all those theater people?” Connor says, eyes still closed. “Excuse me, theater artists.”
“He wasn’t there. Logan never goes out,” Sean reminds him because this is true.
When the guy isn’t traveling or playing hockey, he’s attached to the hip with his wife, Beatrice. Won’t shut up about her, either.
“Beatrice and I started to listen to opera together,” Logan says even though no one asked. “She’s so into it. Did you know there’s a theater by the university that shows encore performances of live recordings from the MET in New York? It’s incredible. Everything is high definition, and the sound quality is—”
Lance lays a heavy hand on his shoulder to stop the onslaught of Logan’s verbal diarrhea.
“What?” Logan asks, unaware of how unbelievably boring it is when he goes on and on about the charcuterie boards during their romantic picnics or her latest redecoration project.
We get it. You’re happily married, found your soul mate, blah, blah, blah.
“No one needs to hear about opera, man,” Lance says for all of us.
“We’re talking about Randi’s girl,” Sean offers from behind me.
“She’s not my girl. We’re friends.”
“Yeah, right,” Gordon snickers. “Tell your dick that.”
I open my mouth to object, but what’s the point? I have no control over my body’s reaction to Elise.
“She’s directing a play in Cleveland that I’m planning to watch this summer.”
“Exactly!” Logan pipes out of nowhere, apparently having his own internal conversation. I’m about to shut my e-reader and pretend to sleep so everyone will leave me alone, but Logan keeps going.
“Opera is like theater. Shakespearean with all the big emotions and stuff.”
“There’s one major difference,” I say. “Beatrice is a fan, while Elise is a freaking director. What if I don’t understand anything?”
Logan shrugs. “I never said I understood opera. Only that we listen to it together.”
Everyone rolls their eyes and starts dispersing because Logan is not going to shut up.
I, however, would like to demand a freaking explanation.
“For fuck’s sake, Logan, if you’ve got a point, make it already!”
“You don’t need to be an expert on the shit she’s into. What matters is you’re there. The stage is a major aphrodisiac for some women. We watched La bohème, and there’s this duet that got Bea so hot and bothered…” He pauses. A grin spreads over Logan’s face that I am tempted to punch.
“Let things play out and reap the benefits after. Pun intended, by the way,” he concludes.
While everyone within hearing distance cringes at this nonsense talk, the plane makes an unsteady lurch. It is divine intervention from Logan’s unwanted advice. The seatbelt sign lights up and everyone settles back into their seats.
Gordon, however, refuses to let the topic rest.
“That play in Cleveland isn’t going to last forever. She’ll be back. What’s the plan?”
Honestly, if you asked me that question when she first left, my answer would have been pick up where we left off. Elise would call when she’s horny, and I’d be around, ready and willing to oblige. Fun times and casual sex, just the way we like it.
But now, I’m not so sure.
Because now, I know what her vintage posters look like and how damn hard she works.
I’ve heard the sound of her voice when she’s nervous and when she’s excited.
She’s given me a glimpse of that mind of hers, filled with creativity and brilliance.
And we’ve talked about things I’ve never shared before, not even with teammates who I basically spend most of my time with.
“I don’t have a plan. I’m not worrying about anything except winning the next game,” I declare, steering this conversation back to the hockey playoffs.
“You’re not worried she’s dating other guys?”
“What?”
He taunts me with his phone’s screen. “Guess you don’t care that she’s on Bumble.”
The benefit of being a goaltender is my reflexes are way faster than even the world-class athletes on this plane. His phone is in my grasp before he takes his next breath.
“Hey!” Gordon complains.
“Did you seriously try to pick her up on a dating app?”
“Nah, man. I was scrolling and saw her. Surprised me, to be honest. Thought you had that locked down.”
“Show me.” I’m gripping his phone so tightly, the screen could crack.
“I’ll have you know that it is a violation of privacy rights to share users’ personal information without permission,” he yaps in a snotty tone. “Profiles must be handled responsibly to avoid eroding the trust of users in—”
“Cut the bullshit. I know you saved it.”
“I saved it.” Gordon holds his palm out for me to return his phone. He pulls up a bunch of screenshots and instructs me to scroll.
I stare down at a picture of her on a patio wearing a white shirt and denim shorts. Her tanned legs are crossed, and dark hair falls around her shoulders.
Elise is girl-next-door perfection in the palm of my hand. I bet she’s breaking this dating site with that smile alone. There are bits of her written profile for me to read. Something about being a bookworm and theater fan.
Before I flip to the next picture, my thumb pauses.
“This is wrong,” I state and close my eyes.
I’m not meant to look at this. Even if it is a public website, the fact that I’m seeing it through a friend’s phone is creepy as fuck, right?
“Take it away from me.”
“You sure? The fourth picture is on the beach.”
My eyes fly open, and I grab his shirt roughly. “Are you telling me you saved a picture of Elise in a bathing suit?”
“A string bikini, actually.”
I go after his phone again. “I swear to god if you don’t delete these right fucking now—”
“I’m kidding!”
Before I’m further tempted by the pulse-pounding need to see Elise—fuck I should have taken a picture of her in that red dress—I point at Gordon’s face.
“Delete the screenshots and leave me alone.”
He snickers but goes through the motions of pressing his screen. He lifts it to show that his picture gallery is clear of Elise.
“Happy now?”
“Ecstatic.”
“You know what I think?”
“Not sure I can stop you from telling me.”
“Keep it simple. Tell her you want to be with her for real.”
I roll my eyes before closing them as if I plan to nap, though sleep is far from reach. With only the hum of the plane to ground me in the moment, my mind roams to Elise.
The second we won game four, I wanted to call her.
Does that mean I want to be with her for real, like Gordon suggested? What does that even mean for a guy like me who has never dated seriously? What if she’s not interested in me that way? How can she take me seriously when I’ve only ever been a hookup?
And yet resuming casual sex doesn’t seem possible when she returns to Columbus. Her rules worked for me at first. Now, I’m not so sure.
I don’t want Elise in my car or in a hotel room. I want her in my bed. My home. Not only for sex but to stay, goddamn it. Overnight, the next day, all the damn time.
But what if pushing her boundaries ruins what we have? Not sure I could handle that.
The only thing better than being her lover, is being her best friend.