I hitch a shoulder. “Probably.”
He barks a laugh.
“We don’t have to worry about that, though,” I say. “You’re not my type, either.”
At least, not anymore. Cash is pretty close to how I imagined my hypothetical future husband. Classically handsome. Polite—mostly. Could teach me a thing or two about guitar, and sing me a love song.
But somewhere along the way, my type turned into Miles King. It might’ve happened that first day, but who’s to say, really? The important part is it’s himnow, and that’s how I want it to stay.
The food comes. We talk about music, about Nashville, about my album, and our song as we eat. It’s easy. Comfortable.
Being around Cash makes me miss my brother. The rest of my family, too. I talk to them at least once a week, but the ache of missing home never really goes away. Maybe I’ll talk to Miles about bringing them up for a visit.
“What’re your plans for after we’re done recording?” I ask, dunking my sandwich into my soup. Cash eyes the whole thing like he’s never experienced the magical combo of tomato soup and grilled cheese.
“Tour.” He pops a fry into his mouth.
I think I heard something about that. “Nice. When does that—” I cut off when my phone rings and rush to answer. “Congratulations!”
Miles laughs. “You watched?” He sounds tired but happy.
“Checked the score. I was in the studio.”
“We played well. Fox got a hat trick.”
“That’s three goals, right?”
“Yeah.” Somehow, the single word holds so much pride.
I’ve learned a lot since moving to Chicago. I can watch a whole game now without calling Mia for an explanation on each penalty. I still don’t completely get the “delay of game” one, but I’ve come a long way in my hockey knowledge. I even kind of enjoy watching it… Though I’m not sure that’d hold if Miles weren’t the one playing.
“Sounds like we might have something to celebrate soon.” I know enough not to say anything definite. Don’t want to jinx it.
“Yeah. Three more, and we’re in.”
There’s noise in the background. Lots of shouting.
“Where are you?”
“Locker room. About to head out. The guys are already planning a party for when we clinch,” he says, and I picture him shaking his head.
“A party sounds fun.” I tear a piece of bread off my sandwich, then drop it back on the plate.
“Yeah. Kettler’s wife is usually the planner, so it’ll probably be at their place.”
“Oh yeah, she messaged me about the playoff jackets?—”
“You don’t have to… I know you’ve got your own stuff—Just—” he huffs. “I’m trying to say, no pressure.”
“Are you kidding me? You think I’m turning down the opportunity to have some fancy jacket withyourname on the back?”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” I say softly. “I can’t wait.”
I smile, and I imagine Miles smiling, too.
An idea sparks. “So, about that party… shouldn’t the captain throw it?”
