Chapter 9 Brody
nine
brody
This might have been a bad idea.
Scratch that. It was definitely a bad idea.
Because sitting across from Chloe in the soft glow of Edison bulbs with a Spanish guitar playing somewhere in the background, the scent of olive oil and garlic wafting from the kitchen, it feels a little too much like Barcelona.
Only this time, I’m not running. Not on your life.
“The patatas bravas look good,” Chloe says, glancing up from the menu. “And the croquetas. Oh, and calamari. Is it weird to order all the appetizers?”
“Tapas, and not weird at all.” I close my menu. “Let’s do it.”
She smiles. That genuine smile that makes her whole face light up. “That was easy.”
This girl has no idea how devastating she is with that green dress that brings out flecks of gold in her brown eyes. Her hair falls in waves over her shoulders, catching the light every time she moves. She could ask for everything on the menu and I wouldn’t argue.
A male server comes by, takes our order, and recommends a spiced vermouth to pair with the patatas. I couldn’t tell you what else he says because my head is completely wrapped up in Chloe Dawson, who’s tracing patterns on the tablecloth with her finger.
Is she nervous?
Or maybe her heart is racing, like mine. Maybe she feels the electrical charge between us. I almost jerked away when our fingers brushed earlier.
And this is supposed to be a simple get-to-know-you date.
I’m in deep trouble.
The server leaves, and silence settles between us.
I should ease into this. Play it cool. Charm my way through this conversation.
Instead, I lead with panic. “I think we’re in trouble.”
She blinks. “What?”
“Derek. He blindsided me after practice today. He’s onto us.”
Her eyes grow wider. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, he basically accused me of using you to boost my reputation…which is only off base because he doesn’t know how true it really is. We gotta know everything about each other if we’re going to survive the next few events.”
Chloe straightens, a slight blush creeping into her cheeks. She brushes her hair behind her ear. “Um, all right then. What do you want to know?”
“Your middle name. How you take your coffee. Your biggest fear. What you do when you’re stressed.” I lean forward. “For starters.”
The waiter stops by, dropping off the patatas and vermouth. Chloe picks at the food, dishing some onto her plate before diving into answering my questions.
“Middle name’s Rose. Chloe Rose Dawson,” she says, covering her mouth with a hand.
“Chloe Rose,” I say, pulling out my phone to take notes. “That suits you.”
She smiles. “Does it? I didn’t like it so much when I was younger. But it’s grown on me the last few years.”
“It does.” I scoop a forkful of patatas and keep going. “Coffee order?”
Chloe’s lips part, but I jump back in—
“Wait, don’t tell me. I already know this one. Candy cane latte.”
She chuckles a little, and my chest tightens at the sound. “Well, now it is. I used to be all about oat milk lattes, but then—” She stops. Colors slightly. “You bought me that candy cane latte after the coffee shop collision, and I got addicted. So now that’s my order.”
I can’t help but grin. “Maybe I got a little too confident about that one. I think it still counts for a point though.”
She raises a brow. “There are points?”
“Oh, there are always points.” I take a sip of the vermouth. It’s good. Warming. “Biggest fear?” I ask, setting down my glass.
“Being run over.” She says it matter-of-factly.
“Like, literally? By a car? Train? Bus?”
“My family.”
I pause, recalling her words from Saturday night. I’ve gotten used to being a little…invisible.
She’s paused too, looking at me with that vulnerable expression, and it does something to me. Something primal, like when I see an enforcer go after one of the rookies. Even if I don’t like them, I don’t like to see them crushed.
“What do you do when you’re stressed?” I continue, needing to keep moving before this gets too heavy.
She pulls her gaze away, shrugging off the heaviness of the moment. “Oh, you know, the usual. Bread. Cookies. Just about any carb will do the trick. Ironclad’s velvet smash cookie is particularly soothing after a stressful day.”
I grin, trying to envision her buried in a cookie skillet after a hard day’s work. Maybe we’ll have to get dessert after this.
I try to think up another question, keep things light. But instead, I hear myself say, “I saw the dragon.”
Chloe freezes. “What?”
In hindsight, without context, that didn’t make a whole lot of sense.
“In your sketchbook back in Barcelona.” It’s not breaking the rules—the topic’s not anywhere near the kiss that shall not be named.
But still, my pulse leaps as I keep going.
“It fell open for a second after I got your purse back. I saw your drawings. They’re really good. ”
Her face flushes. “You never said anything.”
“You closed it so fast, I figured it was private. But I remembered it when I saw the sketch in your apartment earlier.” I pause. “What’s with the dragon?”
Chloe is quiet for a long time. “Don’t laugh.”
I scoff. “I would never!”
She takes another sip of her drink, pushes the patatas around with her fork. “I spent a lot of time in the library as a kid. After school, on weekends. Reading and drawing and making up stories about princesses and warriors and magical creatures.”
“Like the dragon.”
“Like the dragon.” She meets my eyes. “I have this crazy dream about becoming a children’s book author and illustrator.”
“What’s crazy about that?”
She tilts her head. “It’s not super practical. Doesn’t exactly pay the bills.”
There’s something in her voice. Resignation. Defeat.
Like she’s already given up on the thing that makes her eyes light up when she talks about it.
“Practical is overrated,” I say.
She laughs. But it’s hollow. “Says the professional hockey player with the guaranteed contract.”
I pretend to wince. “Ouch.”
The moment settles like dust in water, her laughter fading into a quiet smile.
I reach across the table. Not thinking. Just moving.
My hand covers hers.
She doesn’t pull away.
“You shouldn’t give up on being a children’s author,” I say quietly.
“I don’t know,” she says, her expression wry. “I got a rejection letter today. The publisher said it didn’t fit their current publishing needs. Translation: Not interested.”
“Aw, Chloe. That’s one publisher—”
“It’s fine. It’s just a silly dream.”
“Stop.” I squeeze her hand. “Stop calling your dreams silly. They’re not. You’re—”
I stop, because what I want to say is You’re incredible. Your art is incredible. And anyone who can’t see that is an idiot.
But that’s dangerously close to real-boyfriend territory. So instead, I say, “You’re talented, Chloe. Don’t let one rejection letter convince you otherwise.”
She’s staring at our hands. At the way my thumb is tracing circles on her palm without my permission.
“Thanks,” she whispers.
The server arrives with the other food—croquetas (as golden as I remember them from that night in Barcelona) and perfectly fried calamari with lemon wedges—followed by the delicious redolence of garlic and lemon and parsley.
Chloe glances at our hands, her fingers trailing mine as she finally pulls away. But a magnetic force remains.
“This is amazing,” Chloe says around a bite of croqueta. “Why is everything in this restaurant perfect?”
“Barcelona magic.”
“Is that a thing?”
“It is now.”
She laughs. Real laughter. The kind that makes her nose scrunch up, her brown eyes twinkle. I want to make her laugh like that every day for the rest of my life.
The thought hits me like a slapshot to the chest.
Oh no.
I’m in trouble. Real trouble.
She has her phone out now and is holding it up to take a picture of the food.
“What are you doing?”
“Phone always eats first.”
Right then, of course, the waiter swings by our table. “How’s the food?”
Before I can answer, his eyes fall to Chloe’s phone. “You want me to take a picture?”
I glance at Chloe. Do we?
“Sure,” she says, handing over her phone. I lean in close and, okay, the smile comes easy. Too easy. Chloe’s hair brushes my shoulder, and I resist the urge to pull any closer. The server snaps the picture, then hands it back to her. My phone dings a moment later when she texts it to me.
“Okay, my turn for invasive questions,” Chloe says, stealing a piece of calamari from the shared plate. “Let’s start with…what’s the hardest thing about hockey?”
The hardest thing about hockey?
“The reading,” I say after a moment. “Plays, formations, defensive strategies. Everything’s written down.
Game plans, scouting reports, coach’s notes.
And I can’t—” I stop. Take a breath. “I have to memorize everything. Every single play. Every formation. Every adjustment. Because I can’t rely on reading them in the moment. ”
Chloe tilts her head a little, her brown hair tumbling over her shoulder.
I hesitate before explaining. This is the part I don’t talk about. The part that feels like weakness. “I struggle with it. Dyslexia. Makes reading plays, contracts, anything with a lot of text…hard.”
Her lips part, understanding dawning.
“So I spend hours before every game going over everything with my coach. Having him explain it verbally. Draw diagrams. Working it out until it’s committed to memory.” I’m surprised by how easy this is to say. How she makes it feel less like weakness. “But that’s not the hardest part.”
“What is?”
“Making it make sense. Hockey isn’t just memorization.
It’s angles. Physics. Geometry in motion.
You have to read where the puck is going, where your opponent is moving, how to position yourself to cut off their options.
It has to click. Has to make sense spatially.
It’s about seeing the space. Understanding how bodies move through it. Anticipating flow.”
“That’s incredible.”
“It’s exhausting.”
“But effective. You’re one of the best defensive players in the league.”
I pause. She’s been doing her research.