But that’s dangerously close to real-boyfriend territory. So instead, I say, “You’re talented, Chloe. Don’t let one rejection letter convince you otherwise.”
She’s staring at our hands. At the way my thumb is tracing circles on her palm without my permission.
“Thanks,” she whispers.
The server arrives with the other food—croquetas (as golden as I remember them from that night in Barcelona) and perfectly fried calamari with lemon wedges—followed by the delicious redolence of garlic and lemon and parsley.
Chloe glances at our hands, her fingers trailing mine as she finally pulls away. But a magnetic force remains.
“This is amazing,” Chloe says around a bite of croqueta. “Why is everything in this restaurant perfect?”
“Barcelona magic.”
“Is that a thing?”
“It is now.”
She laughs. Real laughter. The kind that makes her nose scrunch up, her brown eyes twinkle. I want to make her laugh like that every day for the rest of my life.
The thought hits me like a slapshot to the chest.
Oh no.
I’m in trouble. Real trouble.
She has her phone out now and is holding it up to take a picture of the food.
“What are you doing?”
“Phone always eats first.”
Right then, of course, the waiter swings by our table. “How’s the food?”
Before I can answer, his eyes fall to Chloe’s phone. “You want me to take a picture?”
I glance at Chloe. Do we?
“Sure,” she says, handing over her phone. I lean in close and, okay, the smile comes easy. Too easy. Chloe’s hair brushes my shoulder, and I resist the urge to pull any closer. The server snaps the picture, then hands it back to her. My phone dings a moment later when she texts it to me.
“Okay, my turn for invasive questions,” Chloe says, stealing a piece of calamari from the shared plate. “Let’s start with…what’s the hardest thing about hockey?”
The hardest thing about hockey?
“The reading,” I say after a moment. “Plays, formations, defensive strategies. Everything’s written down. Game plans, scouting reports, coach’s notes. And I can’t—” I stop. Take a breath. “I have to memorize everything. Every single play. Every formation. Every adjustment. Because I can’t rely on reading them in the moment.”
Chloe tilts her head a little, her brown hair tumbling over her shoulder.
I hesitate before explaining. This is the part I don’t talk about. The part that feels like weakness. “I struggle with it. Dyslexia. Makes reading plays, contracts, anything with a lot of text…hard.”
Her lips part, understanding dawning.
“So I spend hours before every game going over everything with my coach. Having him explain it verbally. Draw diagrams. Working it out until it’s committed to memory.” I’m surprised by how easy this is to say. How she makes it feel less like weakness. “But that’s not the hardest part.”
“What is?”
“Making it make sense. Hockey isn’t just memorization. It’s angles. Physics. Geometry in motion. You have to read where the puck is going, where your opponent is moving, how to position yourself to cut off their options. It has to click. Has to make sense spatially. It’s about seeing the space. Understanding how bodies move through it. Anticipating flow.”
“That’s incredible.”
