Well, damn. There goes my heart fluttering like a butterfly farm.
I slide my tongue into his mouth for a fleeting taste before pulling back and shaking my hands out at my sides. “Okay, I’m ready to woo Uncle Walt.”
Hunter chuckles softly. “You don’t need to woo him. He already likes you.”
I open my mouth to reply with something witty, but it disappears from my brain when he takes hold of my hand and links our fingers together. His warm hand gives mine a squeeze, and I have to stop myself from bouncing my way inside like a puppy as I follow him. My cheeks ache from my face-splitting grin. I’m so fucking happy, I don’t ever want this feeling to fade.
He leads me down a short hallway to the living room, where an older man with a big mustache sits in a comfortable-looking armchair.
“There he is. The man of the hour,” he booms, his deep voice echoing off the walls. “Shutout against Detroit. You really showed them fuckers who’s boss, didn’t ya?”
I let out a bark of surprised laughter. “Well, yeah, I guess I did, sir.”
“Walt,” Hunter warns, and I realize he hasn’t let go of my hand. “I thought I told you no hockey talk tonight.”
“I don’t mind,” I say quickly.
Walt looks ridiculous when he rolls his eyes and lets out an exasperated sigh, causing me to laugh again.
“Are you sure you wanna get involved with this one?” Walt asks me, motioning to Hunter with a flourish of his hand. “He isn’t any fun.”
“Oh, fuck you, Walt,” Hunter chides.
I snort. “I think he’s fun.”
“I’m glad one of us thinks so,” Walt grumbles under his breath.
Hunter flips him off, then says, “Why don’t you make yourself useful and get us some drinks?”
“Okay, okay.” Walt turns to me. “Elliot, what would you like to drink?” He lists off a variety of different drinks, and my mind whirls at the sheer number of choices.
“Uh, I’ll just have a seltzer water, thanks.”
With a nod, Walt slowly gets up from the chair. He grabs his walking cane and makes his way into the kitchen. I watch him until he disappears from view before dropping onto the couch next to Hunter.
“I could’ve got it myself,” I whisper, feeling guilty as Walt clearly struggles with his mobility.
He shakes his head. “He has to get up and move around, otherwise he feels worse for it. He’s been sitting in front of the TV for hours while I’ve been preparing dinner, so it won’t do him any harm to grab some drinks from the kitchen.”
I swallow, gaze darting back to the open door before facing him again.
“What’s up with him?” I ask quietly.
“He has arthritis pretty much everywhere. He refused to get surgery on his hip when they offered it, so it’s a case of managing the pain with medication and doing light exercises to keep him as mobile as possible.”
“My agent has that. Hayden. He really struggles sometimes.” I shove my hand into the front pocket of my hoodie and run my thumb over the smooth handle of the spoon I’ve brought with me. “I didn’t know he had it until recently. He used to play for Boston, but an injury ended his career. He and Jackson are together, so we’ve become a lot closer. It’s like he’s my friend now, not just my agent. But after I found out, it made sense whyhe always told us not to hide any pain from the trainer, because he wasn’t honest about his pain, and now he suffers.”
He moves his hand to rest on the back of the couch behind me, his fingers toying with my hair. “Do you worry about that sort of thing?”
“Yeah.” I nod. “I mean, yeah, I do, but I try not to think about it. Like, when I sprained my groin, I was so worried I’d never get to play again, even though it’s a pretty common injury for goalies. Our hips and knees, and our ankles, too, take a beating. We’re constantly rotating our hips beyond the normal range of motion. And it only takes twisting slightly wrong for those muscles to overstretch or tear, then you’re in trouble.”
His eyes sparkle as a soft smile plays on his lips.
“What?”
“You.” He takes hold of my chin. “You’re so hard on yourself sometimes, and yet, you’re so fucking intelligent.”
“I’m not,” I mumble, face heating under his praise.
