She lifts one hand and wiggles it in a “so-so” motion, then grabs her phone.
Bayleigh: A little. You keep rubbing your palms on your jeans.
I glance down. Sure enough, there are faint smears on my thighs from where I’ve wiped them dry a few too many times.
Caught.
“Okay, yeah,” I admit, making the words slow. “You make me nervous.”
Her eyes flare just a little. Then she leans forward, elbows on the table, thumbs tapping.
Bayleigh: Good. Because I’m nervous too.
Something warm unspools inside me.
We open our menus. I pretend to read it; instead, I end up watching the way her mouth moves when she chews on her lower lip, considering her options. I track the way her fingers trail along the edge of the laminated page. When she glances up and catches me staring, I drop my eyes, busted.
She snorts, shakes her head, then points to an item on her menu and raises her brows.
“Burger?” I guess.
She nods. Types.
Bayleigh: Burger. Fries. No onion. I’m basic.
“Basic is great,” I say, meaning it. “Especially if it means you don’t smell like onion all night.”
She smirks and points at me.Your turn?
I go for the same—burger, fries, extra pickles, because I like living dangerously. When the waitress swings by, I give the order, making sure to move my mouth clearly in case Bayleigh wants to follow along. She watches both of us, eyes flicking back and forth, catching more than I expect.
Once we’re alone again, I decide to stop being a coward.
I lift my hands.
You. Work.I sign, halting but recognizable. Then, I point at her and tilt my head.
Her face lights up. She signs back quickly, then pauses, makes a face, slows down, breaks it up.
Camera. I. Work.Her eyebrows quirk, and she mouths, “Kraken.” Then she pulls her phone out to fill in the rest.
Bayleigh: I do the team's social media, mostly. I can work from home, and I’m good at it.
I grin. “Explains you helping at the charity event.”
Her eyes narrow playfully, and she shoots back a message.
Bayleigh: I like my job. The fans or enemies? Not so much. I like taking pictures for the team and posting them.
“You’re good at it? The photo stuff?” I ask.
She nods, a little shy, then starts scrolling through her camera roll. She turns the phone so I can see.
Shots of the ice. Players in motion. Benton mid-check, eyes fierce. Kids at the charity event, smiles wide, sticks raised. One of Milton in the net, helmet off, sweat on his brow, mouth open in a yell. The angles are sharp. The emotion’s right there, easy to feel.
“These are really good,” I say, and I don’t even have to slow down. I want her to see how much I mean it. “Like, really good.”
Her cheeks go pink. She glances down, then signsthank you, small and quick.
