“So, you didn’t have the same phone number that you had when you were in New York?”
“No, I had to change it within a week of being home. And I had just finished my first season with the Saints, and I didn’t want the situation to go public, so I took care of it. But why are you asking about my number?” I tap my finger on top of my phone that’s still sitting on the table.
“It doesn’t matter.” She shakes her head.
“Oh, yeah, it does. It does matter if you’re asking. So, I’ll tell you again—Aaron blew me off. And, fuck, I didn’t know your last name. I looked all over social media for you, and I couldn’t find you. No Alie, Allison, Allesandra—nothing matched you.” I lift my hands. “Honestly, Alie, I feel like you had an unfair advantage, knowing who I was.”
“I did know who you were that night. You’re right.” She nods, watching me.
“That night with you was unlike anything I’d ever experienced. My buddies have talked to me about what it was like, getting with their wives, and it had never happened for me before, so it almost seemed like a myth.” I laugh lightly. “But when I met you, I felt something that I’d never felt before. And I think you felt the same. At least, I thought you did. I hopedyou did. So, do you have any other questions for me about that night?”
My question is met with silence. She doesn’t smile. She just watches me.
The server wordlessly sets our drinks on the table and walks away.
Her fingers tighten around the stem of her glass. Her posture shifts, spine straightening, shoulders pulling back like she’s fortifying something invisible.
Her eyes move over my face slowly. Assessing. Not soft. Not warm. Calculating.
Like she’s comparing what I just said to something else she’d already decided about me.
I hold her gaze, waiting for her to call me out. To laugh. To accuse me of dramatics. She does neither. Instead, a small crease forms between her brows in confusion or maybe suspicion. For a second, I get the strange feeling I’m being measured against a version of myself I’ve never met.
And I have no idea which one of us is losing.
She shakes her head and sits back in her seat. “I don’t know. I think it’s a lot of information for me to process for one night. Let’s just talk about something … lighter?”
There it is. The exit ramp of conversation.
I study her for a second longer. She won’t meet my eyes now. She’s focusing on the candle. The table. Anywhere but me.
She’s not indifferent. Indifferent doesn’t look like that.
“Lighter?” I say slowly, giving her the out she clearly wants. “Okay.” But I can’t shake the feeling I just said something that shook her, and I don’t know if that’s good or very, very bad.
“Tell me about your time in New Orleans.”
“What do you want to know? I’ll tell you anything.”
She folds her hands around her glass. “Did you like living there?”
I huff a quiet laugh. “It was…a lot. That is one non-stop party.”
“I can see that. I’ve only been there a few times for fun, and it was a whirlwind. But the food. Beignets, jazz … heaven.” She has a small smile on her face, like she’s trying to hold it in.
“Yeah, the food was top-tier for sure. And the fans were incredible. Very loyal and very loud. Sometimes a little terrifying.” I chuckle. “It was good for me though. I feel like my time there helped me find my way in the league. Forced me to grow up a bit, if that makes sense.”
She nods, her gaze dropping to the table.
“What about you?” I say, leaning back slightly. “Are you still terrorizing public skating rinks?”
Her mouth curves. There she is.
“I do not terrorize,” she says. “I inspire.”
“You dragged me onto the ice with zero warning.”
“You’re welcome,” she counters. “I’d be back to my antics if it wasn’t springtime, thawing the ice. That and I’m swamped with work.”
