“Not often.” He runs a hand through his hair. “And not famous, per se.”
“Oh, now I’m intrigued.” I take a step closer and lean on the door he’s still holding open.
“I’ve only seen reporters use a notepad like that.” He nods at it. “Or my grandma, who kept one for her weekly grocery list.”
“Oh, so I remind you of your grandmother?” I cross my arms, shifting my weight to one hip. “Careful, that’s not usually an opener that wins girls over.”
He coughs a laugh. “That’s not—I wasn’t?—”
A bottle slips from the crook of his arm. I reach out on instinct, but he catches it one-handed. Fast reflexes.
“No, of course not. I was just…” He shakes his head. “Never mind.”
A man brushes past us, and the handsome stranger steps closer to me, letting him pass. The shift reminds me we’re half-blocking the entrance. He pushes the door open wider, pausing the same way I do. Not wanting this unexpected, odd interaction to end.
I wouldn’t hate it if he asked for my number. I’m not looking for anything serious, obviously, but I’m also not someone who turns down a little fun.
“Well…” he starts, then settles on, “Welcome to Chicago.”
My stomach does a quick dip.
“Thanks.” I match his polite grin before slipping inside.
I don’t make it three steps before glancing back.
He’s still there. Still watching me.
Icould ask forhisnumber. Heck, if I were back home, I probably would’ve already. But it feels like too big a swing for hour one of this new life. And I have other things to focus on.
Plus, heshould’veasked for mine. I’m done with lukewarm. I deserve a man who wants me fiercely. Loudly. I want the big feelings, the ones that shake loose lyrics. The ones you write songs about. That ruin you a little before building you back up, stronger.
He gives me a small wave and an even smaller tip of his head before letting the door close between us.
I scribble a note down about Gatorade, grandmas, and déjà vu.
TWO
I’d liketo say the disappointment on my teammates’ faces isn’t my usual post-game view, but I’m not in the business of lying to myself.
After spending most of last season on injured reserve, I forgot that Coach’s voice can fill a room while leaving space for every tiny sound—the swish of fabric, Velcro tearing, gear clattering into bins. I forgot the way the guys avoid meeting your eye, not trying to pin blame, and not wanting to see it reflected in someone else’s.
Deep brown eyes framed by thick lashes flash behind my closed lids for maybe the hundredth time since this afternoon. I pinch the bridge of my nose before focusing back on Coach.
I take a sip of Gatorade as he wraps up with, “Rest tomorrow. We’ll be back at it the day after.”
That tug in my gut—responsibility, guilt, whatever it is—pulls me to my feet. “We know how to play better than we did tonight. Leave it out there and concentrate on the next one.”
It sounds a lot like the last eight times I’ve encouraged my team. We’re on another epic losing streak, but as captain, it’s my job to keep the hope alive. Even if I’m losing it myself. I thoughtthis season was going to be different, but nearly two months in, the Stanley Cup feels farther away every night.
“Aye, aye, Cap,” Helm chirps.
The mood in the room snaps like a rubber band as my teammates hustle to get out of here.
I drag a hand through my hair, forgetting it stops at my neck now. Still not used to the shorter cut Fox talked me into. He claimed his new mustache was the secret behind his hot streak earlier this season. I’m pretty sure being in love with Mia has more to do with it, but he swore a fresh style would help me get my “groove” back. I’m still not sure how I bought that, but here we are.
“Anyone wanna grab a drink?” I toss out to the locker room.
I get the usual chorus of polite declines.
