“That it’s been cute since college.”
The kindling inside now ablaze, I need a change of subject. “What about you? Did you always want to play hockey?”
Fletch nods. “Since I was nine. My dad is a major football fan and wanted my brothers and me to be active. Unfortunately, none of us wound up as star quarterbacks, but he didn’t seem to mind. Dad never pushed me, just encouraged me. In fact, he learned how to play hockey so we could practice together.”
A little piece of my heart yearns for that kind of encouragement and support. Then again, Fletch just offered some. I guess I’ll take it where I can get it.
I say, “You must miss playing, being sidelined—or whatever the hockey term is—like this.”
A raw vulnerability I haven’t seen before flickers across his face. “Yeah. At first, the doctors were concerned I’d need major surgery, which meant an even longer recovery before I’d get cleared to play again. But I got some more opinions. The other doctors veered toward a more conservative approach. Unfortunately, Coach got the first report and swiftly learned about the migraines that came with the jaw injury. They’re gone now, but because I have had a couple of concussions, he’s been treating me with kid gloves.”
“Fletch, I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”
He shrugs, but I can see the effort it takes to appear nonchalant. “At my most recent appointment, the doc said I’m healing beautifully.” He lets out a breath. “I’m not going to prepare for the possibility that my career might be over. Not giving up. A busted jaw isn’t going to stop me. But it has given me a lot to think about related to my direction in life and my priorities.”
“Yet that hasn’t stopped you from singing.”
“But it definitely tossed me out of the dating pool.”
The wood in the fireplace pops, sending a little spark toward the protective screen, but then the room is quiet asFletch’s words crackle between us. I can’t read his mind, but our marriage situation makes me wonder what’s next for him after the thirty days are up. Likely, he’ll be back on the ice and find someone he truly wants to marry, not the pathetic “school newspaper girl” joke from college.
Tearing myself from the emptiness those thoughts leave me with, I say, “Is that part of why you’ve been doing so much community work?”
“Probably not a bad idea to build a life outside hockey, but that’s still compatible with it ... and sometimes, when you feel like everything has been taken from you, the best thing to do is give back. Give what you can.”
I blink a few times, shocked by the depth of his words. “That’s remarkably mature.”
“Don’t sound so surprised. Did you think I was made of potato chips and pretzels?” he teases, dipping his shoulder into me, but his eyes remain serious.
“Potato chips and pretzels?” I ask.
“Things that break easily. Sorry, I’m hungry.”
I laugh through my nose. “So you’re a true romantic, then? On and off the ice?” I don’t know why I ask this, why I steer the conversation in this direction.
They say, “write what you know,” but maybe I’m trying to know what I write.
He chuckles—a short, surprised sound. “You think I’m a romantic?”
“Christmas. Volunteering. The way you talk about hockey and community. You almost sound like a guy one of my romance writer friends would create.”
“What about you?” he asks, turning the question back on me.
I squawk out a laugh. “Not even close. No, remember? I write about cowboys.”
“But they’reromancenovels.”
“Fiction being the operative word.” Doing my best to ignore and hide the warmth, not just in my cheeks, but my whole body, I stare into my mug, hoping he doesn’t notice.
But apparently, my heart wants to make itself known because I say, “As you may have gathered, my parents’ marriage was functional at best. I see clearly now how they stayed together but lived separate lives. My father was emotionally distant—he worked hard to support us, but affection wasn’t in his vocabulary. My mother, well, you’ve met her.”
Fletch shifts slightly so he’s facing me more and I instantly long for his strong, steady presence to remain close.
“In case no one ever told you this, none of that meant you were unlovable.”
Fletch attempts to hold my gaze, but as my chest spasms, I glance away.
Gently pinching my chin, he shifts my gaze back to meet his and all I see is intensity rioting in his brown eyes as if he’s willing to go to war for me, not against me. But this can’t be right, can it? If so, I have to reorder everything I believed about him … starting now.
