“I found it when I was passing by the Raptors facility,” I answer vaguely.
Sloane tucks the phone into her bag, then looks up at me again, eyes sharp with intent. “She’s going to want to thank you.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“Oh, it absolutely is,” she says. “She’ll insist. Probably bake something unnecessarily complicated.”
I smile despite myself.
“So,” Sloane continues, already pulling out her own phone, “what’s your number?”
I hesitate.
This wasn’t the plan.
But then I picture Ivy—flustered, furious, trying very hard not to look at me—and something twists in my chest. She will never see me as anybody else than the cocky ice hockey player.
This could actually be kind of perfect.
“Yeah,” I say finally. “Okay.”
I give her my number. She types it in, nodding approvingly.
“And your name?” she asks. “So Ivy knows who her savior is.”
I pause.
My real name is out of the question. She would shut down immediately.
But another name comes easily. A nickname from my high school years that nobody uses anymore.
“Tell her,” I say, “it was King.”
Sloane’s eyebrows shoot up. “King?”
“Yeah.”
She pockets her phone. “Alright, King. I’ll let her know.”
She gives me a salute and heads toward the Starbucks door.
I watch her go, then turn toward my car, a strange sense of anticipation settling in.
***
I’m sprawled on the leather sectional in my living room, the city lights blurred through the panoramic windows. The volume on the TV is low; some game recap I’m only half-watching. I’m wound down for the evening, the muscle soreness from today’s grueling practice finally easing into a manageable thrum. A cold beer sweats in my hand.
My phone buzzes and I nearly jump from the couch to reach for it.
Unknown:
Hi, this is Ivy. My friend said you found my phone. Thank you so much for returning it. I really appreciate it.
A smile pulls at my mouth before I can stop it.
I type, delete, type again. Don’t overdo it. Don’t be a dick. You already had your fun today.
King:
