I cut the engine. A cough, a scrape of keys against metal. My sneakers hit the sidewalk in a hurry.
She glanced up at me, the keys jangling in her hand. I couldn’t tell whether it was surprise or annoyance on her face, so I played it safe.
“I heard you guys keep special extended hours for Stanley Cup winners.”
Sage’s eyebrows drew together, suspicion shading her expression. The keys slipped from the door, and she took a step back.
“Is that what you heard?”
I shrugged, hands buried in the pockets of my sweats. “I’ll pay extra?”
She assessed the situation with her usual candor, something mischievous flashing in her dark eyes. It gave her expression an even more mysterious air that tugged at something in my gut.
The lack of response got my blood pumping, and I was afraid I’d end up losing my nerve. “Come on. I have something to settle.”
Something I hadn’t realized I needed to settle until I didn’t take the turn back to my apartment.
Sage’s lips pressed together, and one eyebrow quirked up, making the silver bar in it catch the streetlight just right. “Okay, fine, now I’m curious.”
She stepped aside and swung the door back open, letting me through. I caught a faint glimmer of disbelief in her eyes, like she’d wound up in a story she wasn’t expecting to be part of tonight.
Which was kinda how I felt too.
The bell over the door chimed. I was inside.
4
Sage
The door clicked shut behind him, and the bell gave one tired chime before settling. He stood just inside the threshold, shoulders squared from the cold, hoodie unzipped enough to show the team logo stretched across his chest. The ice hadn’t fully left him yet. There was still that alertness in the way he held himself, like someone waiting for a whistle.
I reached past him and flipped only the lights above the flash wall and the lamp over the counter. The studio shifted from storefront to after-hours. The neon sign stayed dark, because I wasn’t about to advertise an encore.
“You’ve got five minutes to convince me I’m not wasting my time.” I slid my keys back into the drawer and waited.
He huffed a quiet laugh, then let it die just as quickly. His gaze drifted, not to me, but past me. Toward the back corner of the studio. Toward the privacy curtain that hid my station.
Of course.
Impatience gnawed at the edges of my resolve, and I moved a stack of consent forms into alignment, more out of habit than necessity. “You got me to let you in. Congratulations. Now spill.”
He dragged a hand over the back of his neck. The determined guy who’d jogged up from his truck with that dumb line about extended hours had disappeared. In his place stood someone recalculating.
“I just…” He glanced again at the curtain. “I didn’t want to leave it like that.”
“Leave what like what?”
There would be no easy routes out of this. If he was going to interrupt me getting home after a long day, then he was damn sure going to make it worth my while.
“You know.”
I held his stare until he gave up on that shortcut.
He shifted his weight, eyes dropping to the floor between us. His laces were still damp. “Walking out.”
I circled out from behind the counter and moved toward one of the sinks at the guys’ stations. As predicted, there was a collection of metal ink caps in it. I rinsed them, letting the water run over my knuckles, cool against skin that had spent the day wrapped in gloves.
“People walk out on worse,” I said, once I’d given his confession enough time to settle. “It’s not like you lost any of your hard-earned money.”
