Instead, I lazily indulge in watching the good boy in question set the small round table by our windows, overlooking the strip. He’s in his team-issued USA hoodie and sweatpants, same as me, but he looks more the part than I do. That golden hair, too dark to be blond but too light to be brown, and those blue eyes are what everyone pictures when they think of an American Olympian. They most certainly don’t picture me. Tall, broad, dark hair with even darker eyes full of brooding. Connor looks friendly and approachable. I look like everyone’s least favorite bouncer at the nightclub they desperately want to get into, but never get the nod to enter.
“Food’s up,” Connor says and takes a seat, angling himself to look at the TV where his father’s anger at finding out I was named alternate captain is being shown again. If we hadn’t had a closed practice, I’d suspect he was the one who broke the story about our brawl. The man has always had it out for me. A fight breaking between the team is just the thing he’d have loved to blameme for.
“Thanks, dear,” I say and wink at Connor. My teasing is rewarded with another blush rising to his cheeks. Which was a mistake. I kind of want to kiss them now and feel the heat of his flushed skin against my lips.
“Fuck off,” he says, then smirks at me. “You paid for this.”
“Dick.” I laugh as I take a seat and lift the dome off my food. It looks perfect, and the fries served with it are still sizzling. I grab one and pop it into my mouth. Then, I reach for the beer that came with it and twist the top off. I pass it to Connor before opening my root beer.
“Thanks,” he says. “Are you sure this doesn’t bother you?”
I shake my head no and bite into my burger. I can see Connor eyeing me across the table.
“Just ask,” I say as I swallow. We’re stuck in this room together, he’s bound to have questions, and for whatever reason, I don’t necessarily feel like hiding my answers from him. It’s that wholesome and earnest face of his. It does things to me I can’t ignore. “I know you want to.”
He bites his lip. “I don’t want to pry?”
“It’s not prying.” I shrug. “We’re stuck in this hotel room together. We may as well get to know each other a bit.” Besides, that works both ways. Eventually, his wound-up secrets will come tumbling out to my amusement. I nod my head towards the TV. “Plus that shit’s gonna get old really quick.”
“True.” He laughs, then takes a sip of his beer. He places it down as he swallows and looks at me. His brows are furrowed together. “I know it’s not my business,” he says. “But you know…”
“Drinking is part of the culture of hockey.”
“The rink rats don’t call it ‘beer league’ for nothing.”
I take another bite of my burger and eye him as I chew. “Perhaps they could have become more than rink rats if they’d have laid off the booze.”
“Touché.” He smiles at me. “Is that what you did?”
“No. I’ve always stayed away from the stuff.”
“Have you ever had a drink?”
“Ihave.” I take a long swig of my root beer and I’m pretty sure I see him watch my Adam’s apple bob up and down as I swallow. “But when you grow up where I did, like I did, the allure of booze quickly loses its appeal.”
“Ah,” he says and gives me the look like he’s sorry he asked.
I decide to let him off the hook. “It’s an Alaska thing. We’re all used to it.”
His lips quirk up. “I’m pretty sure alcoholism isn’t specific to Alaska.”
“No.” I laugh. “It isn’t. But drinking yourself to death because your boyfriend, your son’s father is out on a fishing boat for three-week stretches every month is something highly specific to Alaska.” The words come tumbling out of me. I swallow and give Connor a hard stare.
His eyebrows rise and he pales into a ghostly white.
I sit back in my chair, leaning to rest my elbow on the arm. That sure wiped the grin off his face. I’ve told no one in hockey the entirety of this story, and I don’t know if I want to do it now. But Connor is staring at me, and I can tell it’s going to eat him alive if I don’t say more.
I wipe my mouth with my napkin, then take another sip of my root beer. “It’s not all bad,” I say, deciding to continue. “If my mother hadn’t drunk herself to death I never would have played hockey.”
Connor now officially looks like a corpse.
Goddamn it. This is why I don’t tell people my life story. They always end up looking like they’re the one that died. Or worse, they wear their pity so plainly on their face that I immediately want to punch it off them.
“She… died…” he chokes out.
I give him another hard stare. “That is what I said, isn’t it?”
“Yeah… but… I was hoping you meant it like a metaphor.”
