Miles:
We’re 2 for 2, Starling. Talk when I get back to the hotel?
Fri, Dec 19 at 6:38 p.m.
Me:
We gonna make the record 3 for 3?
Miles:
Fuck, yeah, we did!
Call you in a minute. My battery is almost dead
Still not charging it overnight like a normal person?
I am who I am
Sun, Dec 21 at 5:25 p.m.
Me:
Good luck
Miles:
Back at the hotel. Call you in ten
I diveacross the couch cushions as soon as my phone rings.
“Hey.” His voice is rougher than usual. Tired, probably, after four games on the road.
I pull my knees up. “Maybe I am your good luck charm after all. You won again.”
There’s a pause before he says, “You watched?”
“Most of it.” Closer to all of it. “Mia walked me through the parts I didn’t understand.”
He chuckles, but it fades into something quieter. “I didn’t know you were watching.”
“I wanted to see what all the fuss was about.” I pick at a loose thread on the throw blanket.
“And?”
“I see the appeal.” The appeal being watching Miles glide across the ice, slam other men against the boards, and be generally very hot.
He clears his throat. He’s been doing it all week. I’m starting to think it’s a nervous tic.
“Are you getting sick?” I ask.
“What—no.”
“You keep doing—” I mimic the sound.
He huffs a breathy laugh. “Way to call me out, Starling.”
“Sorry.” My lips tip up.
