“Yes,” I say, arranging a smile on my face.
“Are you sure don’t want to go out with us?” she asks, a look of concern filtering across her features.
I pick up my camera bag and put it over my shoulder before rising from my seat. “I’m sure. I’m tired. I’m going to go home. Maybe next time?”
“Are you coming to the game on Sunday?”
“I’m not sure. I’ll let you know in the next day or so.”
She envelops me in her arms, and I hug her, feeling so grateful to have such a good family. I love all of them, and I know I’m lucky to be a Rivershon.
Even if being a Rivershon is keeping me from following my heart.
We walk out of the arena, and I make my way back the way I came, through the underbelly of the arena. I pass by the high-end members club for season ticket holders who sit in the first row, with an elaborate buffet and open bar. The music is cranked up and the place is packed with everyone celebrating the win.
Next, I pass by the media room, where players will speak to the press after the game, and the lounge for wives and girlfriends of players. That’s a space I make sure I stay clear of. I want the WAGs to be able to talk freely, and they might not do that when the coach’s daughter is in the room.
Finally, I’m outside at my car. I plug my phone into the charger and drop it in the console. I use the drive back to my apartment as some time to think. As I drive through Miami, amongst the glittering skyscrapers, views of the bay, and towering palm trees, a realization hits me hard in the heart.
The text from Phoebe has woken me up. I need to put myself out there to make new girlfriends. That might mean talking to a stranger, introducing myself, doing more activities, but I’ve got to try. The idea of rejection is scary to me, but I want to have close girlfriends again, and that won’t happen unless I take action. I want to have dinners out and group chats and people I can talk to on a regular basis. I want to grab lattes and chat about life.
I want friends in Miami.
And I’m determined to make them.
Of course, I do have one friend in Miami, I think as I pull up to a red light.
Aiden.
I swallow. I have a friend who I want to be more than a friend. I can’t deny my attraction to him. Aiden told me last night he would date me if circumstances were different, and his words nearly broke my heart.
We both want things to be more, but we know they can’t be.
Yet … we can’t stay away from each other.
My mind remains wrapped in thoughts of Aiden, and it stays there for the rest of the ride home. I can see the wayward blondish-brown hair sweeping over his forehead, covering that scar above his left eyebrow. How he listens to what I say and the way he put his hand on my back last night. His smile when he found me in the crowd tonight. How he playfully smacked his glove against the glass as a greeting.
And how I caught him staring at me during warm-ups …
I pull into my parking space. I’m about to turn off the engine when my phone buzzes in the console. My stupid heart leaps.
Could it be Aiden?
I pick up my phone, and Aiden has indeed texted me back:
Thank you. You know your hockey, so that comment means a lot coming from you.
Is there anything sexier than a man who recognizes a woman’s knowledge of a sport?
I’m about to reply when another text from Aiden drops in:
Where are you right now? Still in the arena?
I text him back:
No,I just pulled into my apartment building. Why?
Aiden Wentworth is typing …
