All the tension runs out of my shoulders, and I almost sag in relief.
She’s done something to her eyes because they look bigger and brighter, and her lips are a slightly different shade. She can say whatever she wants about casual flirting and hanging out, but I’m not operating in la-la land to believe she feels something too.
She didn’t dress up. Her leggings and bold multicolored tank top are classic Sawyer attire, but that just makes me more convinced that she’s trying to tell herself a lie while giving away the truth to me.
“I thought we could watch a movie,” I say, stepping back to let her get past me.
“A movie?” She glances at me over her shoulder as she heads to the living room. “What movie? I’m picky.”
“Love Letters from Spain. That’s your favorite isn’t it? I’ve never seen it.”
“Of course you haven’t,” she says, with a hint of teasing in her tone. “You’re too young for classic Ellie Cooper and Wyatt Burgess.”
“Please do not play the age card with me. We both know it’s bullshit.”
“You want me to play the wisdom card instead?”
“You think you’re wiser than me?” I can’t help tracing the shape of her as she walks, admiring the tight fit of her leggings across her ass.
“In so many ways,” she says, sinking into the couch. “You’ve got me beat in hockey, and not much else.”
Instead of giving her space, I take the seat on the couch closest to her. We’re not touching, but I can feel the heat of her, catch the hint of Tom Ford’s Vanilla Sex, which always fucks up my senses. Even before I was willing to admit that I was developing obsession-level feelings for my trainer, I spent far too much time categorizing and filing away information about her—most of which I would have considered useless, if I’d let myself think about it. Like the fact that she can recite whole portions ofLove Letters from Spainwhenever I say anything that has even a loose connection. I haven’t seen the film, but I feel like I know it.
Another random fact? She doesn’t like popcorn and favors peanut M&Ms when watching a movie—which I stopped and bought on my way home. She likes her drinks so cold that it’ll give anyone else a brain freeze. Bold, bright colors dominate her wardrobe, but she seems self-conscious anytime I point it out.
If I were to participate in a gameshow about Sawyer Tucker, I’m convinced I’d blow any competitors out of the water, including every one of her siblings. Anything she’s ever told me is slotted somewhere in my brain, information that’s just waiting for the right time to be plucked out, held up as proof that I pay attention.
Many people would probably find my competitive nature off-putting, but as Sawyer’s focus snags the bag of M&Ms on the coffee table and then shifts to the pitcher of water with almost more ice than liquid, I realize, not for the first time, that I don’t give a shit what other people think of me. No one, including her, has ever accused me of being wise. I’m going after her with intention when I’m not sure what my intentionsare.
When her gaze meets mine, I can’t tell if she’s surprised, impressed, or confused by my gesture.
“I didn’t know you liked your water so cold,” she says.
“I don’t,” I say, “but you do.”
“And the chocolate?”
“Also for you.”
“You know this isn’t a date.”
“I’d do the same for Chayton.” Which is actually true, so I can claim it with confidence. When I give a shit about something or someone, I don’t go half-assed about any of it. I care, or I don’t care at all. My belief, forged by too many foster homes as a kid, is that the gray areas in life are the ones that hurt you. For a while, I let myself forget that rule with Sawyer. She was trying so hard to trim or cut back whatever was growing between us that I thought avoidancemightbe best. Hockey is still my priority, but I can’t see how wanting to be with her can hurt my career.
She’s assessing me, and I let her without breaking eye contact. My cards are on the table, and she knows what I want. She can reject me or refuse to see what’s between us. In my mind, at least one of us being honest is much better than me trying to hide what’sright there.
“I don’t know if that admission about Chayton is as comforting as it should be,” she says, her voice hushed.
Because she’s come to know me like I know her.
“I’ve never tried to date Chayton,” I say, unable to hide a hint of a smile.
“But he’s basically your family.”
“Heismy family. You really haven’t looked me up yet? Chayton’s dad adopted me out of foster care at fourteen. The family I’d been placed with didn’t like the high level of hockey I was moving into. Rec hockey was fine, but the traveling teams? Not a fucking chance. The percentage of players who make it to the WHL was too low for them to even consider the path I wanted to pursue. By some stroke of luck, I ended up on a team with Chayton. His dad,” my voice grows gruff at the memory, “saw something in me they couldn’t see. Hockey was something I knew in my gut I was built to do. There was no way I wasn’t going to be on the right side of those statistics.”
“What about your biological family?”
I swallow down my urge to tell her I’m not talking about it. Other than what’s already out in the press, I avoid any questions about my upbringing at interviews now. I’m a big enough name that I can tell networks what I will and won’t talk about, and most of them who want access to me are more interested in the hockey I play now anyway. The lead-up to the WHL draft was the worst. My story was on repeat. Nowhere to hide.
