So now I’m pretending to listen to Sloane as I watch Austin give Melissa his trademark grin, the one that never fails to melt female hearts. Melissa’s lips quirk up and shesmiles shyly back at him. Even though Austin’s my best friend, I hate him right now.
I turn resolutely back to Sloane and interrupt her mid-sentence. “What are you doing here, Sloane?”
She pauses and chews her lip, and as she does, my attention strays back to Melissa and Austin. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but he’s standing too close to her. Like he missed all the elementary school lessons on personal space.
But Melissa’s smiling, as though she doesn’t mind.
“Luke?” I turn back to Sloane, who’s wearing the frustrated expression of a woman who’s had to repeat herself.
“Yeah, Sloane? How did you know when I was playing?” I don’t think she came to a single one of my games when we were together.
“You told me your team was named the Smooth Operators, so I looked up the league schedule online.”
“Okay.” One more thing to blame Austin for; the team name was his idea. If he hadn’t come up with something so cheesy, Sloane might not have remembered it.
But I’m not being fair. It’s not Austin’s fault; if Sloane hadn’t come to hockey, she’d have shown up at my condo.
She’s still chewing her lip, probably trying to draw my attention to her mouth. “I realize things didn’t end well between us . . .”
“You mean when you called me a selfish asshole who was incapable of a serious relationship?”
Sloane flinches, then pulls herself together. “I was hurt, Luke, and I lashed out. I’m sorry.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Melissa smile at Austin. Her blue eyes flicker toward me, oh so briefly, before she turns and heads for the door. Relief sweeps through me; she’s not waiting for Austin, who’s walking toward the change room.
“Luke?” Sloane’s voice is frustrated. “I said I’m sorry.”
“Thanks, Sloane,” I say briskly. “Apology accepted.” I try to walk around her, but she puts her hand on my arm to stop me.
“I have tomorrow off, so I thought I’d cook you dinner. I brought groceries and everything.”
I feign surprise, although I could see this coming. I’m not fool enough to think she drove all the way here from Toronto just to deliver an apology in a hockey rink.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Sloane. If you’ll excuse me, I need to get changed.” My sweaty hockey gear is starting to itch.
But she doesn’t take her hand off my arm. Clearly, she also needs a lesson in personal space. “I have tomorrow off,” she repeats. “So I thought we could talk things through. See if we can, you know, work things out.”
My teammates have started to emerge from the change room, and someone shoots me a curious look as he walks out. The last thing I need is a scene in the hockey rink.
I push out a sigh. “Give me a minute to change, then we can go for coffee.”
Her face falls. “I thought we’d go to your place. Please, Luke?”
“Yeah, I guess.” I know it’s the wrong answer, but I’m tired of arguing and tired in general.
I change quickly, and find Sloane waiting right outside the change room door. Her hand finds its way onto my upper arm as we walk to the parking lot, where her red Audi convertible is parked next to my Honda.
Sloane follows me to my condo and parks in one of the visitors’ spots. As I cross the garage to meet her, I’m relieved to see that Austin’s car is parked in his usual spot, and there’s no sign of Melissa’s Toyota in the visitor parking.
Sloane’s pulling bags of groceries from her car’s tiny trunk. “Thanks, Luke,” she says, as I take them from her. “I bought stuff for lime chicken with quinoa.”
“Great,” I reply, but I can’t muster much enthusiasm. It’s eight-thirty at night and I’m starving, and all I want is to stick something from the freezer into the microwave so I can eat. Sloane’s a bit of a food snob, and whenever she cooks, it’s a production. Last time she was here, she complained that I didn’t own a utensil to julienne vegetables.
She pulls a duffel from the backseat, and I take that from her too. It’s ominously heavy; she’s brought enough clothes for the weekend.
Five minutes later she’s puttering around my kitchen, making herself at home.
“Crap,” she says. “I forgot the cilantro.” She opens the fridge and peers inside. “Do you have any?”
