Page 79 of Locke

“What’s wrong?”he asks, concern etched on his face.

“How do you know anything’s wrong?”I ask, tucking my phone into my back pocket.

“Your face,” he says.“I’ve apparently gotten good at reading your emotions.”

I rub the back of my neck, glance around to see if anyone’s looking at us.Not that we’re doing anything wrong.Just two work mates having a conversation.My eyes go to his.“It’s Grant.Text messages begging for a chance.It is… unsettling.”

“Get the order of protection,” he says.

“We’ve had this conversation.”

“We’re having it again.”

“He’s in LA, Locke.I’m in Portland.That’s nine hundred miles and—”

“He showed up at the team hotel.”

“Because we were in LA.”

“He knows where you live.”His voice is level and somehow that makes it worse than if he were angry about it.“He knows where you work.He found your new number and your new address after you moved, and he showed up drunk on a sidewalk and put his hands on you.”He pauses.“Get the fucking order.”

I know he’s right.I know it with the part of my brain that does assessment for a living, the part I have been steadfastly ignoring when it comes to my own situation.I also know that if I take this seriously, it means I have to acknowledge the danger, which makes things scary.

As it stands, I have too much other shit on my plate to worry about.

“I’ll think about it,” I say.

“Livia.”

“That’s the best I’ve got right now.”

He looks at me for a long beat, trying to decide whether to push.Ultimately, he nods his acquiescence.“Fine.”

Then he surprises me by stepping in closer, dipping his head.

“Do you want to get out of here?”I ask.

“Yeah… I do.”

The Willamette River moves dark and quiet with the city lights breaking across its surface.We’re on the esplanade east of the arena and without a second thought, my hand finds his as we meander.His fingers are wrapped around mine and it feels so right.

“What do you want to do after hockey?”I ask.“Do you have an endgame plan?”

His head twists to look out over the water, then back to me.“I’m not sure.I don’t really have any outside skills or education, but I’ve often thought about coaching.”

“I think you’d be great at that,” I say with a smile.

The corner of his mouth moves.“I don’t know.Given my history with authority, it’s probably an ironic choice.”

“I don’t think it’s ironic at all,” I say.

“No?”

“People who understand from personal experience make the best teachers.”I watch the water.“Any particular skill level?”

“Youth, ideally,” he says without looking at me, which means he hasn’t said it out loud often.“There aren’t enough good coaches at that level.The ones who actually know the game and who understand kids… there aren’t enough of them.”

His tone tells me that it’s more than just a dream.That it’s a need to be involved, and I know in my gut it’s got everything to do with what’s eating at him.