“Nope. That’s my goal after the holidays. It’s been a weird couple of months of trying to find a new routine that doesn’tinclude regimented training and spending five hours practicing at my old rink. I finally feel like I’m balancing everything well, and that’s going to open up more time to do fun things in my free time like go to hockey games and see my best friend.”
“What about Riley’s AHL debut?” Brody uses his blinker, then drapes his forearm over the steering wheel. “That’s coming up. He doesn’t think we’ll be able to make it because of our travel schedule, but the guys are planning on surprising him. I’m pulling all the strings I can to make it happen.”
“Stop.” I put a hand over my heart. “To be honest, I had all these opinions about professional athletes before Grant was drafted. And I’m sure there are shitheads out there, but it’s refreshing to see guys who aren’t toxic pieces of trash. Who care about each other and aren’t afraid to say they love each other. I was at my brother’s house the other night, and he and Ethan had an argument over who needed to sign off their video game first. It’s hysterical.”
“That’s changed over the years. When I played, guys weren’t so open about their feelings. Maybe it’s the social media effect.” Brody shrugs, turning down a side street. “Digital affection is easier than other kinds of affection.”
“You don’t strike me as an affectionate guy.” I burst out laughing. “Wait. You probably do some awkward bro hug, don’t you?”
“I hug plenty of people the normal way,” he grumbles. “I’m not an ogre.”
“You sure?” I reach over and poke his cheek, squealing when his fingers fold around my wrist and pin my hand to the center console. “I see some green on your face.”
“Watch your tone, Hannah,” he warns, not releasing me from his grip. “What are you doing for the holidays?”
“Grant and I are going to Florida for two days. My best friend, Tierney, has a brother who plays in the NBA. He wastraded to the DC Bullets, but he spent the first part of his career on the Orlando Blazers, who the Bullets are playing on Christmas. We have tickets to the game.”
“That sounds fun.” We pull into a gravel parking lot, finding a spot in the corner. “No snow in Florida.”
“Thank god. This winter wonderland gets really old, really fast.” I peer at the diner sign. “Are we here?”
“No. I thought we’d sit outside a different diner first,” he deadpans.
“Please don’t ever become a standup comedian.”
I wiggle my hand free, but not before his fingers drag along the inside of my wrist. It’s like he’s sneaking the tiniest taste, stealing the smallest sip of something he shouldn’t have. So quick it might not have happened at all, but his face gives him away. Pink cheeks. The dip of his chin.
The cold December air is welcomed when I leave the car, but I shiver when the wind ripples through my thin skating outfit.
“Here.” Brody crowds my space, offering me a gray sweatshirt. “Put this on.”
I look at the offering, realizing it’s the same one he gave me that night in June. The same on he took off me in a frantic, desperate state, and I rub my thumb along the drawstring.
It’s still soft. Still smells like him, and I wonder if it’s his favorite hoodie. If it’s one he sleeps in every night, because the sleeve has a hole in it. The hem is fraying, little threads coming loose, and I nudge it back his way.
Wearing it would be an admission. An acceptance that I remember exactly what happened the last time I put this on my body and the recognition that I want to do it again.
“I’m fine,” I say. “We’ll be inside soon.”
“Hannah. Put on the sweatshirt.”
Snow flurries start to fall from gray clouds, and the blast of heat when I open the door of the diner is magnificent. IgnoringBrody is the easiest option, so I spot the hostess. I slide up to her stand and give her a smile.
“Hi! Could we have a table for two, please?” I ask.
She flips through a stack of menus, and Brody is still there. The entryway is so small, my back is almost flush against his chest. His shoe bumps mine. My elbow knocks against his. I need more space, but he doesn’t give it to me.
“You’re in a skirt and tights.” He bends his neck so he can whisper in my ear. “And shivering. Take the damn hoodie. Please.”
“Fine.” I accept the sweatshirt from him, and I swear he relaxes the second I yank it over my head. “But only because you know I like it when men beg.”
“Have I told you today that you’re a brat?” he murmurs, a hand on my lower back as we follow the hostess to a booth in the back.
“No. Say it again,” I purr.
I’m pushing his buttons, but he doesn’t bite. Not when he spins his hat forward to cover his face and lifts his menu, studying the options.
“How old were you when you started skating?” Brody asks, changing the direction of our conversation.
