I knew she was close, but my fingers still slipped on the pick at the sound of her voice. Conversational, thoughtful, as if this were normal fare for a Sunday night.
After some not so subtle fumbling, I managed to find my place again, and said, with a non-committal tone, “Same as always.”
“Enough with the details. You’re doing my head in.”
A light chuckle escaped me despite the slow-burning coals flickering in my gut. I didn’t spend too much time thinking about how she’d managed that.
“Coach was on my ass, Mason kept pulling me back in line even though I wasn’t out of it, and the rest of the team, well, they just generally have it in for me. The price I pay for being the favorite, and don’t you dare post any of this to your social media.”
She smiled, her brown eyes gleaming in the cheap orange light of the hallway. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
I returned to the lock, feeling the slight resistance in the tumblers, sliding the pick up and down. “Speaking of secrets, are you ever gonna tell me what your fanfiction’s about?”
When I glanced over, her face had turned scarlet. Nicole drew back, shaking her head abruptly.
“No.”
“No?”
“Just… no. That’s off limits. Two things you never ask a woman: her age, and what her fanfiction’s about.”
“Come on,” I said, lock forgotten. “Am I in it? I am, aren’t I? You can tell me. I swear I won’t judge.”
“You’re already judging,” she shot back, arms folded across her chest. “Your whole face is one… huge… face of judgment.”
“Fine. Be that way.” I made a show of being utterly devastated. “Make me spill my guts, but you won’t return the courtesy.”
“It’s private, and I won’t let you bully me into submission.”
Her glare could have cut steel. I kept working the pick. Click. Pause. Click.
“But thanks, anyway,” she added with a smaller voice.
“You’re welcome.”
Then—click.
The knob turned under my hand. “And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how it’s done.”
I stood up, holding the door open like a gentleman.
Nicole’s eyes shone with relief as she moved past me. “You’re incredible. A hero on and off the ice. I owe you.”
“Big time.”
And when I started making my way back to my own apartment, she stuck her head out and said, “A drink? It’s just cheap beer, but I like to repay my debts as quickly as possible.”
I stood there thinking about it, which she probably took to mean something else, because she quickly added, “Platonic debt repayment. Nothing else.”
“In that case…”
We settled into her little kitchen nook, and I watched her move with easy confidence as she plucked two cans from the refrigerator.
“Here’s to saving about ten billion dollars on a random Sunday,” she said, holding up her beer.
I clinked mine against it. “And to childhood skills that never go out of style.”
It was stupid to think that something so simple could improve my night, but here I was, standing in my neighbor’s kitchen and feeling like all the tension that had followed me home had slipped a few feet further from me.
