“Why didn’t Jameson tell me this?” I ask.
“Because he knew you didn’t care,” he says. “None of the Crosses are blasting our financial information to the world.Either you know, or you don’t, and most don’t. It’s better that way.”
“You play because you love the game,” I whisper, and I don’t know why I never realized that it was never about anything else.
“And for legacy,” he adds. “Many of these GMs and coaches try to use money as a motivator for players. That tactic has never worked for me. It doesn’t make me happy. I already have enough.”
He could’ve walked away at any point, could’ve lived off his investments and his trust fund, but instead, he shows up every single day, risking injury.
He tips my chin up so I’m looking at him. “Hockey is what I do, babe. It’s not who I am and doesn’t define me. And the older I get, the more I notice how money can’t buy the things I really want.”
“Like?” I ask.
“Friendship. Love. Time. You.”
My throat tightens, and I have to look away before I start crying again because I’ve done enough of that this week.
He pulls me against his chest, and we stay like that, holding each other, hiding from the world outside. But my phone keeps lighting up on the nightstand with texts that I’m not ready to answer. I’m sure it’s my mother or Addison.
“We should go out,” Patterson says.
I lift my head. “Out? Like out in public?”
“Yes, out into the world. You and me,” he says. “How about dinner?”
My brows lift. “Are you asking me on a date, Patterson Cross?”
He pulls me into his arms. “Fuck yes, I am.”
Two hours later, I’m wearing a cocktail dress I usually save for galas, and Patterson is holding my hand as we walk into a fancy Italian restaurant in the West Village. The hostessrecognizes him, but she’s professional about it, leading us to a corner booth with exposed brick walls. Candles flicker on the table.
“Wow, this place is a hidden gem,” I say, sliding into the booth across from him. “Romantic.”
“The type of place you bring a pretty girl,” he says, winking. “Impressed yet?”
“Maybe,” I say, biting my bottom lip.
He reaches across the table and laces his fingers through mine. “Damn, you’re so beautiful.”
“Thank you,” I tell him as a waiter appears.
Patterson orders a bottle of wine without looking at the menu. When we’re alone again, I catch myself smiling.
“What?” he asks.
“Nothing. This is … nice. I needed this,” I admit.
“Me too.”
The wine arrives, and Patterson orders for me because the menu isn’t in English. For the first time in days, I feel like I can breathe. We talk about silly things, and it’s easy. He tells me about the rookie hazing rituals that happened in his first year with the Angels. I share the story of how I accidentally insulted a gallery owner in Paris because my French was terrible. He genuinely laughs, and I love the way it sounds.
When the pasta arrives, it’s fantastic. The white sauce is rich and creamy with fresh basil and something garlicky.
“Well?” he asks.
“This is incredible.”
“Best-kept secret in the city.”
