“Not yet,” I lie, but I’m sure my face tells a different story.
He squints. “But you will.”
“Maybe. How long are you gone, again? Remind me.”
“Jamie still out for his weekend with Arch?”
“Yeah.” Roe humphs and I hear a door close. His demeanor shifts a bit, and I wonder if he’s alone now. “I have a good feeling about the game. Practice was good.”
His voice is serious, and I set down my work to focus on him. I’ve seen the ego-driven NAPH player more than I’ve seen thisside of him—the vulnerable Roe Monroe, searching for his way back to the big show. Trying to earn it.
“Then it’s going to be a good game.”
“You think?”
“Since when do you care what I think? You know your value as a player, Roe.”
“Since always,” he says, like it’s obvious.
“I’ll be watching.”
The cocky smirk I’m used to flares to life. “Yeah?”
“Of course I will be.”
“Tell me about your day,” he says, leaning the phone on something and stripping off his practice gear.
My brain goes fuzzy as his clothes come off. He moves in and out of the frame as I ramble a bit.
It’s . . . nice. Like he’s here. Like I’m not the only one making room for something that’s new. Our relationship—if that’s what it is—is as new as a baby calf finding its legs.
An hour later, he heads out for a team dinner and we say our long goodbyes.
I don’t hear from him the next day, which isn’t a surprise since it’s game day. I do my dad routine, knowing Jamie will blow in here after this weekend with his friends—Arch’s birthday was involved—feeling exhausted and with his body reeling from the overconsumption of junk food and sugar.
The house is so damn quiet I’m almost tempted to go back to the woodshop, but sitting on the work stool the past few days has done a number on my back. I crack a beer, pull the jersey from where I stuffed it behind the couch cushion earlier today, and tug it over my head. It smells like him. Like sandalwood from his soap and sweat and something sharper, like the air after a slap shot.
I fire up the game stream. First period. Roe’s on the ice, first line, eyes sharp, moving like the rink belongs to him. Hedoesn’t score, but he’s everywhere. Grinding in the corners, quarterbacking the power play. I know the language of this game, and what I see tonight is Roe playing for more than points.
Wrapped in his jersey, with the smell of him all around me, I can’t say I hate it.
I watch the whole three periods, although the Iceguard dominate enough to make victory clear well before time is up.
When the game ends, I shower, but I draw it out, like I’m waiting for something. About the time I slip into bed, my phone buzzes again, and I feel the rise of my smile as I slide to open the video call.
“Good game,” I tell him, and the compliment lights up his blue eyes.
“It felt good out there tonight.” The picture becomes a ceiling as he adjusts something then comes back into the frame, propped up against the headboard in a hotel room.
Monroe smirks at me, his damp hair looking even darker than usual. Something thuds hard in my chest.
“Jamie home yet?”
“Tomorrow.”
He nods and we talk a bit about nothing, just reconnecting, but I can see the pinched look around his eyes.
“You tired or is it your knee?”
