When I walk back out to the living area, Louis is still on the couch, but he’s not looking at his phone or the TV. He’s not even watching the ocean as it churns and crashes against the rocks. The wind is picking up and it's getting more violent out there. But Louis is watching me.
He gives me a soft, gentle smile as I approach him.
“What?” I ask, slightly self-conscious. “Did I forget something?”
“Nope,” Louis says softly. “You’re just really good at that. At taking care of things.”
Heat climbs up the back of my neck. It’s not the embarrassment I usually feel when people point out my need for control. He’s not telling me I’m too uptight and I should relax. Instead, he looks as though he’s seeing something he likes. Something that makes him smile.
“Someone has to be the adult,” I deflect, walking over to the fridge.
I grab two bottles of local IPA we bought. I twist the caps off, the hiss of the escaping CO2sharp in the quiet room. I walk back toward the couch, holding one out to him.
His fingers brush mine as he takes it from my hand, and the contact sends a jolt up my arm.
“Cheers, Rookie,” he says, his dark eyes glittering with an emotion I can’t name as he clinks his bottle against mine.
I take a long pull of the beer. It’s cold, bitter, and perfect. I blow out a long breath, staring out at where the darkness has almost completely shrouded the ocean from view. But it’s still making its presence known with the crash of the waves against the rocks below us.
It’s so isolated, so removed from real life, that it’s easy to buy into the idea that this thing between us doesn’t have to be complicated. That when we’re here, we’re not the veteraninjured goalie and his rookie substitute. We're just two people who like each other. A lot.
“Cheers,” I say.
The wind howls like a banshee clawing at the windows, but inside, the world is nothing but warmth and the delicious smells of garlic, wet wood, and obscene amounts of cheese.
The frozen lasagna we ate for dinner that we picked up in Aberdeen is definitely not on my nutritionist’s approved list, but it was sinfully delicious. And right now, watching the firelight dance across the walls, and listening to Mother Nature showing off outside, I can’t bring myself to care.
I’m sitting on the plush rug in front of the fireplace, my back resting against the sofa, legs stretched out in front of me. Louis is perched on the sectional behind me, his injured arm propped up on pillows, and a plate balanced on his lap.
I reach for the bottle of IPA on the coffee table. The condensation is cold against my palm. I take a long swallow, the bitter hops biting at the back of my throat.
“Easy there, killer,” Louis teases, his voice low and vibrating with amusement. “I thought your body was a temple? Isn’t beer akin to pouring sludge into the engine of a Ferrari?”
I snort, staring into the flames. “Temple is closed for renovations tonight. Besides, if I don’t turn my brain off soon, the engine is going to overheat.”
“Still running the tape in that head of yours?”
“Always,” I admit. “I can’t stop thinking about everything. The standings. The pressure. All of it.”
Lou pauses as we enjoy the fire and the feeling of our full bellies.
“You wanna hear a little bedtime story about my early days? My first playoff start when I was playing for Montreal?”
I lift an eyebrow at him. “Um, duh! Who’s gonna say no to a bedtime story?“
He chuckles, leaning forward into the firelight, his dark eyes twinkling with mischief. “Alright, so, it’s my first year as a starter in Montreal, right? My second year in the league, and we scrape into the playoffs by the skin of our balls. Of course, we get Boston in the first round, and they’re monsters—President’s Trophy winners, their best season in decades.”
“Yeah, I remember that game,” I say thoughtfully. “Wasn’t that the one where you had some kind of equipment problem that caused you to miss part of the game?”
“Equipment problem was the official story, yep.”
“And you're telling me that wasn’t quite true?”
He chuckles, and I turn around, sitting cross-legged so I can face him.
“Before we continue, I should preface this by saying that I was younger then, and there’s a chance I wasn’t as strict about my diet as I am today.”
It’s my turn to chuckle. Of anyone on our team, Louis worries less about nutrition than anyone else. Something Iused tofind incredibly annoying.
