Chapter Seven
Bodhi
When I was a kid, I used to get déjà vu.
The tiniest things would trigger some deeper core feeling that I could never seem to explain.
Like the time I’d dreamt I was in a car accident that involved a red station wagon I’d never seen before.
It was so vivid, so real that I didn’t believe my mother when she told me we had never gotten into an accident before.
Two days later, on our way home from school, we’d gotten T-boned by a distracted driver in the same exact car I’d seen in my dream. According to the police, if I sat in the front passenger seat like I usually did, I would have been killed on impact.
Dinner with Honor felt just like that—as if I’d been in that very position before.
Staring at her. Studying every little way she fidgeted.
How her brow furrowed when she concentrated, and the tip of her tongue poked out the side of her mouth as she took meticulous notes on every player I talked about in a small notebook with puppies on it.
How her caramel eyes lit up when I cracked a stupid dad joke and her top teeth bit into her bottom lip to try to stop from smiling.
It seemed so familiar to me that I couldn’t stop looking at the woman whose cheeks flushed whenever she’d catch my gaze on her.
You’d think that would have stopped me from being the weirdo who kept gawking, but I had no shame. Never have, probably never will. Plus, I like seeing her cheeks tint with that rosy shade of pink. If I had a favorite color, it’s a tie between the shade on her face and the color of her eyes.
Problem is, I don’t know why the feeling nags at the back of my mind. I suppose it’s possible we’ve crossed paths. But I would have remembered her inquisitive eyes that seem to be holding a lot back.
The thought is broken when my phone goes off as I pull into the driveway.
I already said goodnight to Gemma, so I know it can’t be her unless she’s sick again.
Over the last few months, she’s had small fevers and stomach bugs, so I pull my phone out of the charging dock expecting to see Joe or Helen’s name on the screen.
My brows pinch when I see who it is.
“Olive?” I greet, sounding more like a question than I intend it to.
“Hey,” Henderson’s little sister replies in the same chipper way she always does.
Putting some distance between us was the best thing I could have done when I accepted where we stood after finally opening up about what I wanted from her. We don’t talk nearly as much as we used to, but it’s for the better now that she’s settled into her new life and job in Pennsylvania.
“Hey,” I repeat slowly, leaning back in my seat and staring at the front of my house.
My fingers clench around the gearshift once before I force myself to relax.
It has nothing to do with Olive herself.
It’s the fact that I ruined a perfectly good friendship by wanting something I knew was never going to work. “Is everything all right?”
She pauses for a second, probably hearing the confusion in my voice.
When was the last time we talked on the phone?
We’ll send texts back and forth once in a while that consist of “how are you” or “sorry about the game” or “congrats on the win” or “how is the new job in Pittsburgh” but that’s about it.
“I wanted to say hello,” she answers. Another beat of silence. Then, “I’ll be in your neck of the woods soon.”
Ah. We’ve got a game against Pittsburgh’s team coming up, which means she’ll be there as their PR point person.
“I saw that on the schedule,” I tell her, wetting my lips and trying to figure out what to say. I’d like to think I’ve always been a good conversationalist, but things have been strained between us since last year. Again, my fault. “Are you looking forward to coming back to New York?”
I can hear the smile in her voice. “I’m excited to see my brother and everybody else. You, too. It’s been a fairly easy adjustment thanks to Alex and a few of his teammates, so I’m grateful.”
It’s not hard to smile knowing that she’s doing well. She’s using her college degree in a field she dominates in. That’s always what I’ve wanted for her. “Good, O-Dawg. I’m glad.”
A peaceful wave washes over me and eases the tension in my shoulders. Because she’s doing well—she’s living her life and happy.
“So what are you up to?” she asks when I don’t offer anything about myself.
“I just came home from dinner with a friend,” I answer easily.
“Ooooh,” she teases. “What kind of friend? Or are we talking about my brother?”
I roll my eyes. “A girl who’s a friend. Seb had plans with his wife and kid tonight or I would have probably crashed their dinner.”
Interest peaks in her tone. “Is it someone I know? Will she be at the game?”
Her line of questions gives me pause. “No, and yes. But I wouldn’t read into it, little Henderson.”
“Why?” Is she frowning? It sounds like she’s frowning. “I want you to be happy. You can’t stop living your life just because of Gemma, Bodhi.”
My eyebrows go up. “Why would you think I am?” I question.
Is it wrong that I’m a little irritated by the assumption?
Over a year ago, I was asking her to give me a chance—telling her I liked her, laying it all on the line.
It isn’t like I use my daughter as a reason not to date. She’d know firsthand.
“My brother says you never go out unless it’s with him or the team,” she admits, making me want to curse Sebastian out.
He doesn’t need to relay information about me to his sister.
Christ. What is he telling her? That I pathetically sit at home when I don’t have Gemma twiddling my thumbs?
Sure, I don’t go out drinking nearly as much, and my social circle is…
small. But, for once in my life, I’m content. Settled.
I let out a sigh. “Nobody needs to concern themselves with me or my life. I’m good.”
“We’re not saying you’re not,” she promises lightly. “But you know my brother sees you as family. We…we both do. And I want you to see someone who appreciates everything you bring to the table.”
I don’t like hearing the guilt in her tone.
“It’s not your guys’ job to make sure I find someone who’s okay with me being a dad,” I inform her, a little cooler than I mean to. “Just because you didn’t want that life for yourself doesn’t mean you have to feel bad about it. You found your person. That’s all you need to focus on.”
There’s a momentary pause where I expect her to try denying it, but she doesn’t. “All I’m saying is that you’re a good person who deserves the world.”
I hum in response.
Olive clears her throat. “So I’ll see you at your home game then?” she asks, as if I’d turn and walk the other way the second she’s nearby. I’d like to think I’m more mature than that.
“I’ll be there,” I muse dryly. Rolling my shoulders, I try to lighten my mood before she thinks she has a reason to feel bad.
She doesn’t. She didn’t when she was honest with me before and she doesn’t now.
“I’m looking forward to seeing you too, O-Dawg.
And thank you for the…concern, but I don’t need it. I promise.”
Her next question makes my lips twitch with a wavering frown. “Will I get to meet the girl or is that weird? I don’t want it to be.”
If I were smart, I’d give her the right context. Tell her that Honor is our coach’s daughter—that she’s our new photographer. Do I do that though? No, because I don’t like that she sounds guilty over how things went down with us. “You’ll meet her eventually, I’m sure.”
I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose. I’m an idiot. Because now Olive will be under the assumption that the girl who I’m not even sure likes me is…something to me. I don’t even know if I can call Honor a friend; if she’d let me. One dinner definitely isn’t going to sell the idea to her.
A slow smile curls my lips as an idea forms, and I back out the driveway to go to the store before spending two hours in the kitchen.
*
Despite the bare minimum sleep I got that had nothing to do with Gemma for once and everything to do with one of the best loaves of banana bread I’ve made so far, I dominate on the ice against Chicago’s team.
The crowd roars with the winning slap shot that brings us one point higher against the Blackhawks after being tied for the last two periods.
It was a fast-paced game with worthy opponents since they changed their roster.
Up until Henderson helped assist the last goal, I wasn’t sure we were going to pull ahead.
That would have been a shitty way to start a new season.
As we’re skating off the ice, I shoot Honor a wink as she snaps our photos.
I’d convinced Karina to let me into their office early this morning with a haphazardly wrapped loaf of banana bread—with extra chocolate chips and minimal walnuts—to set on Honor’s desk.
Karina gave me a knowing look that was a mix of amusement and something else as I placed the bread in front of the desktop and left a quick note in chicken scratch I hope Honor can read.
All Karina said was, “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
To which I simply smiled the same way I did only seconds ago to the very girl who I haven’t been able to talk to since delivering my present.
I saw her throughout the past two hours with her camera pointed at one of us getting candid pictures during the game.
It’s usually not hard for me to tune out my surroundings, but I was always hyperaware of her lens in my direction whenever her attention was on me.
I’m not sure why, or what it means, or why I like it so much.
But I do. Like it, I mean. Maybe a little too much.
“Did you get my good side, Pixel Picasso?” I ask her, stopping in the corridor leading to the locker rooms and letting the guys walk around us.
Her eyebrows dart up after she gets the last shot of one of our rookies. “Pixel Picasso?” she repeats skeptically.