“It’s fine.” Another almost-clearing, but he catches himself. “How was the studio?”
I… have no idea. I can’t tell whether I’m growing on Boone or if he just tolerates me because someone’s paying him to. This morning, he listened to my latest attempt, grunted “better,” and moved on before I could figure out if that was praise or pity. I’m choosing to believe it was the former.
“Could’ve been worse,” I mutter.
“That bad?”
The loose thread comes free, and I set it on the coffee table. “I won’t bore you with the details.”
“I like hearing about your day.”
I press my lips together. “It’s not how I expected it to be. I mean, I clearly had some rose-colored glasses on, but… I feel like I’m letting him down.”Myself, too. And that part is worse.
A bed squeaks through the line, followed by Miles’s exhaled breath. “When I first got called up to the NHL from the farm team… calling it rough would be putting it mildly. My first dozen games, I maybe played eight minutes per game. That’sterrible, by the way. In my debut game, I put the puck in my own net.
“My point is, give yourself some grace. Doing new things is hard, and you’re already leagues ahead of everyone who’s too scared to even try. You’re going to get it, and this week is going to be a funny story to tell your—” He cuts himself off. “To tell someday.”
I swallow and nod. “Yeah.”
We talk for another hour. At some point I end up sprawled across the couch, legs kicked up along the back cushions. The phone is on the throw pillow near my ear, and both our voices grow soft as it gets later.
Still, it’s hard to say, “See you in the morning?”
“Yeah, see you soon.”
The coffee maker gurgles its final drops, and I realize I’ve been staring at the cabinet for a full minute.
It’s been a long week. My first full week in the studio with Boone, and God, I needed a day off. How can seven days feel so freakin’ long?
I hit call, and two rings later, my mom sings, “My favorite daughter,” too bright and too awake for a Monday morning.
“Onlydaughter,” I shoot back. “How’re you?”
She launches into her day: my dad’s terrible joke, the dessert that got overbaked, the neighbor who showed up with something wrapped in three layers of tape. I have questions about that last one, but she doesn’t pause long enough for me to ask.
I open the cabinet and take out one of Miles’s identical mugs. They’re lined up perfectly, handles facing the same direction. I grab the one on the end and turn another backward.
“What’re you doing for Christmas?” Her voice softens in the way it does when she’s worried but doesn’t want to say so. “We’re gonna miss you.”
“I’ll miss you, too.” I try not to think about my first holiday away from them. Every time I do, a lump forms in my throat that I can’t quite swallow. “But don’t worry about me. Miles invited me to Christmas dinner at his teammate’s place.”
“That sounds lovely.” I picture her pacing the kitchen. “How’s your new guy treating you?”
“Ma, he’s notmyguy.” I roll my eyes, but my lips curve. My mama’s always trying to play matchmaker.
“He is awfully handsome. Your dad looked him up.”
Of course he did.
“You could always give him a chance,” she adds. “It’s been so long since you’ve brought someone home.”
I try to think of who that even was. “John Boyd? My prom date?”
She hums her confirmation.
“I’m not sure that counts. And Ihavegiven chances, plenty of them.” I set my mug down, then pick it back up.
“Darlin’, c’mon. You leave broken hearts in your wake.”
