“Lettuce on a burger doesn’t count.”
I took a long pull from my beer, biting back my grin. “What if there’s also a tomato?”
I caught the edge of his smile before he went back to chopping, and I headed out to the deck to fire up the grill. When I returned, the salad was ready. Sebastian gathered up plates and cutlery and took them out onto my patio. I grabbed the salad—which, admittedly, looked really damn good—and joined him.
The heat from the grill warmed my face as I flipped the steaks. Sebastian lounged at the table, idly swirling the remnants of his beer as the sun turned the sky a riot of pink and purple.
“It’s so quiet here,” he said, lifting his glass to his lips.
“Yeah,” I agreed, flipping the meat. “Pretty different than D.C. I imagine.”
“That’s an understatement.” He spun to look out over the woods. “I haven’t had a night like this in … I don’t know how long. Years, maybe.”
“Well, we’ve got almost two weeks of it.”
“Right,” Sebastian said. “Two weeks.”
We ate as the sun finished setting and the fireflies started blinking in the grass. Sebastian told me about some of the campaigns he’d worked on, the personalities he’d dealt with, and the crises he’d managed.
I told him about last season—the few wins, the many losses, and the injury that had scared the shit out of me because it wasn’t clear right away how bad it was or wasn’t. In the end, I’d only been out six games, but the doc had been pretty clear that if I’d landed differently—if my head had hit the boards first instead of my shoulder—it could have been a season-ender.
“That must have been terrifying.” He pushed his food around his plate with his fork.
“Yeah,” I said, setting down my utensils. “Concussions are always a possibility. I’ve had two already. One more bad one, and …” I shook my head, pushing the thought away. “When doctors start using words like ‘permanent damage’ and ‘cognitive decline,’ it puts shit in perspective really fucking fast. That’s when you know it’s time to walk away, whether you feel ready to or not. Thankfully, I’m not quite there.”
Sebastian went still, his fork hovering halfway to his mouth. He set it down carefully, like he needed a moment to process what I’d just said, and then sat back in his seat. “How long do defensemen usually play?”
I picked up my beer and took a long swallow, stalling for time. “Realistically, I've got three to five years left. Maybe more. Maybe less.”
“Then what?”
“Honestly? I don’t really know.”
Sebastian frowned. “You haven’t thought about it?” His tone wasn’t judgmental, just surprised. “Like at all?”
“Well, I’m not really good enough to go into coaching like a lot of other players do, or savvy enough to become an agent. Iguess I could go back to school, but I don’t even know what I’d study.”
“Is there anything you’d want to explore you didn’t get to the first time around?”
I blew out a breath and looked away. “I dunno. There’s nothing I’m really passionate about, you know?”
“No hobbies?”
I brought my eyes back to his and gave him a flat look. “Doyouhave hobbies?”
“Fair point.”
Sebastian was a self-avowed workaholic. Playing professional hockey wasn’t quite the same thing as what he did, but like him, my hours were long and exhausting. When I wasn’t playing hockey, I was thinking about hockey or training for it.
“Still,” he said, his tone dubious.
I got it. Not having a plan in place wasn’t the best strategy, but I genuinely didn’t know what came next.
“Maybe it’s avoidance, or I’m just falling back on self-sabotaging behavior, but right now, my future's just a big old blank.”
“Taylor—”
“Look, I’m just being honest. This house is great, but I’m not the type of guy who’s going to get into flipping historic houses or the real estate business. Hell, maybe I’ll sell it. It’s not like I have a spouse or kids or anything like that to fill it. Or even family nearby to visit.”
