I stare up at the ceiling, arms spread, my heart still racing like I’m late for something important.
The rest of the night was perfect. And I don’t mean “I got the last piece of bread,” perfect. Or “we didn’t run out of things to talk about,” perfect. I mean perfectlyperfect. Easy laughter, no awkward silences. Eye contact that lasted just seconds longer than necessary, the kind where you can feel it in your spine.
She ordered the Milanese-style risotto with saffron pistils for me, which is perfect because I never would have ordered something that I didn’t understand what it was. And I ordered the lobster tagliatelle for her, which she had cleared in practically two bites. She evenFED ME A BITE OFF HER PLATE.
We talked about movies, and I decided to look past the fact that she’s never watchedThe Little Mermaid. She told me about her goal of becoming the firstfemale to play on an NHL team. She doubts it will happen, but it’s always been her dream to play for the Boston Bruins.
I need to learn more about hockey. Even when Theo played, I never paid attention. He wasn’t ever keen on me tagging along to games or events. Now I’m wondering if it’s because he was dipping his hockey stick in anything that fawned over him.
My face aches from smiling, my sides hurt from laughing, and the rest of me is just totally comfortable with the idea of spending more time with Skye.
Is it because it was my first date with a female?
Possibly.
Am I spiraling because she leaned in real close to tell me the story about her rookie season?
Also possible.
Did I black out for a second when our knees touched under the table?
No comment.
I roll over and groan into the pillow. This is different. Like something has just quietly fallen into place, and now my mind is scrambling to keep up with my emotions.
Is this what it’s supposed to feel like? Because if so, I need to formally apologize to my past self, who thought “meh, this is fine” was the standard.
I am smiling like an idiot.
I drag my hand down my face, unable to erase my smile.
Yep. I’m in trouble.
Picking up my phone, I take a few deep breaths before sending off a quick text to Cassie.
Violet:I think I need to learn how to eat the taco.
Chapter Ten
Skye
I wake up the next morning before my alarm.
Of course I do.
The massive room is dim and quiet, that in-between hour where Milan isn’t quite sure what kind of day it’s going to be yet.
My body feels fine, no soreness, no adrenaline hangover, but my brain is already running drills.
And only half of them have anything to do with hockey.
I stare at the ceiling and immediately regret it because that’s where the memories are stacking. Dinner. Violet sitting across the table. The way our conversation never stalled. The way she smiled when she got nervous. The way I noticed.
That dress.
Me almost knocking out the server.
Fuck.
