I stop mid-drink to process that. “I can see that. It does use a lot of resources.”
“Exactly. And my whole family, one way or another, works in fields related to, well, the planet. My mom works in antiques, my dad runs a gardening store, and my brother’s a scientist studying carbon emissions. I grew up loving, just loving,” she says, for emphasis, “the grass and the earth and the trees and the sky. And, honestly, shifting my focus as a designer made sense. I’d felt so overwhelmed by this almost suffocating desire to save theplanet, and one day a friend asked, ‘Why don’t you work in eco-friendly design?’ and I thought,that’s it. That’s what I can do.” She speaks with such passion, it’s a little intoxicating.
“I love that. It’s a gift to do what you love, isn’t it?”
“It is,” she says, then lets out a long, contemplative breath before turning back to me. “It’s your last season. Is that going to be hard?”
After I set down the glass, I scrub a hand across the back of my neck and sigh. That’s a good question. A great one, really. I take a beat to mull it over. It’s not that I haven’t thought about it being hard. It’s that I’ve concentrated most of my energy on being the best.
I turn to meet her gaze, wanting to give her the most honest answer I can. It feels important.
“I want to go out on my terms. So yes, I think it will be hard to say goodbye. To walk away. But I think it would be harder if I stayed too long. You know? If I—” I pause. These words taste bitter, but they have to be said. Telling her is good practice. “If I wore out my welcome.”
She gives me a sympathetic smile. “I understand that. And hey, I’m no hockey expert, but it sure looked like you played hard today.”
I smile, appreciating that it was apparent. “That’s the goal,” I say, then reach for the glass again.
We finish off our wine.
But when she lowers hers, there’s a tiny drop of Cabernet on the corner of her lips.
Ah, hell.
Before I think better of it, I reach for it, my thumb swiping it gently.
“Oh,” she says, and a soft gust of breath seems to coast across her lips. The sound of it, faint, gentle against thenight air, dances around me, drifting into my mind, burrowing into my soul.
Or maybe it’s the feel of her skin, the dangerous proximity to her mouth, or the wish that I could taste the drop of wine right now. To kiss it off her lips. But that can’t happen—romance is not in the cards.
I stand abruptly, gathering the dish, the napkin, the forks, and the nearly empty wineglass. “I should…”
“Get some sleep. Sounds like you have a busy day tomorrow. And every day. You have a big year ahead,” she says, full of understanding.
Full of the reminder that I need to narrow my focus to hockey andonlyhockey. Romance is always fun at the beginning. But the deeper you get into it, the greater the chance you’ll get screwed.
“I do,” I say, then take the wineglass she’s offering me. “I’ll see you at the end of the week, though, when the furniture arrives. Well, if not before.”
“Yes, if not before,” she adds, brushing her hands down her shirt. “Good night, Ford. Good night, Zamboni.”
The dog thumps her tail against the wooden porch. “Thanks for the mac and cheese, Skylar,” I say.
Skylar turns to go but then spins around, her lips parted. “Your tie. You said your publicist gave it to you.”
I run a finger down the pale-yellow silk. “Yeah. Camila did. She gives me one every year. She did when I finally played in my first game, so now I wear yellow to every game.”
If I thought her smiles were big earlier, this one shoots to the moon.
“It’s your lucky color? Yellow?” It sounds like she’s uncovered a profound mystery.
“Yeah, it is.”
She nods a few times, then says, “It’s a good color on you.”
She turns and walks away, and I watch her the entire time, savoring her compliment. And also this stolen moment with her. But late-night snacks with the neighbor aren’t something I can let myself get used to.
I have a season to prove I can go out on top. And the sport that gave me everything demands the same discipline from me.
I pet my dog, and we go inside. Alone.
