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“That’s fair. Hollis was strong in the first two periods last game.”
“You watched?” His eyes flare. “I didn’t know you were at the arena.”
“I wasn’t. We watched from home. Hammer’s worried someone will get wise to their game strategy.”
“One knee injury is bad enough. No one wants to be forced into retirement because of a reinjury.” He pulls into the parking lot adjacent to the restaurant, which ends our conversation.
Tristan hustles around to help me out. I accept his offered hand, but he lets go as soon as I’ve found my footing. I fall into step beside him. He’s used to wearing suits when he travels and before and after games. Most of the time he carries himself with an air of arrogant confidence. But he keeps looking over at me like he’s not sure what to do.
I lift the hem of my dress when we reach the stairs up to the door and use the railing for balance. Halfway up he realizes I’m a few stairs behind and comes back down. “Do you… Can I?” He offers his arm.
“Thank you.” I slip my arm through his.
“Anything for you, Bea.” His fingers find the small of my back as the doorman holds the entrance open for us.
The host clearly knows who he is and addresses him as Mr. Stiles. We’re led to a private table. This is probably the nicest restaurant I’ve been to. Rob’s family was upper middle-class, so sometimes we’d go for nice dinners, but this beats that by a long shot.
We’re given the option of still or sparkling water, and the server comes by to take our drink order. I choose a glass of white wine and Tristan opts for a beer. That’s his go-to drink of choice when we’ve been at the bar.
He crosses and uncrosses his legs—sets his elbows on the table, then removes them and leans back in his chair.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah. Good. Why?” He rubs his bottom lip.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but you look…uncomfortable.”
He taps on the arm of his chair. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been on a date.”
“How long is a long time?”
He pokes at his cheek with his tongue. “Junior year of high school.”
“What about that cooking lesson? Didn’t that count as a date?”
“I mean…I guess, yeah. But before that, not since junior year.”
The server returns with our drinks, and we order the burrata salad and crab cakes to start.
Once the server leaves, I dig back into this interesting and probably uncomfortable conversation. “But you’ve dated women?”
“Sure. Yeah. I guess.” Tristan takes a huge gulp of his beer and then another.
“By dated I mean you’ve spent time with a woman that extended beyond a one-night stand, and you did things together apart from have sex,” I clarify.
“I guess. Does watching movies count?” he asks.
“In a theater or at home?”
“At home.”
I raise an eyebrow. “What about events—did you ever take anyone to one? Like a charity gala or a team thing?”
“Maybe once or twice, but mostly that was for promo ops and mutually beneficial.” His knee bounces under the table.
Clearly this isn’t his favorite topic, which means I want to explore it more. “What about the girl in high school? How long did you date her?”
“Most of junior year.”
“What was her name?”
“Darla Fitzgibbons.”
“Did you go to the same high school?”
He rubs his lip. “Why are you so interested in my dating history?”
“Because you haven’t been on a date since high school, apart from a couple of charity galas. And if they were promo ops, they don’t count. But the high school girlfriend counts, so I’m interested in her and why you went out with her for so long.”
“Mostly because her parents worked long hours so we could go to her place after school or practice and have sex.”
“That’s the only reason you dated for a year? It must have been some great sex.” I’m needling him on purpose.
“She was nice. And smart. And fun to be around for the most part,” he offers somewhat grudgingly.
“Why did you break up?” I sip my wine.
“Because I couldn’t give her more and hockey took up too much of my time,” he replies. “I don’t know that much has changed.”
“Well, we’re here, doing this thing you don’t normally do, so I think that counts as personal growth. And you play hockey for a living, so it makes sense that it takes up a lot of your time,” I say.
“I had a hard time getting close to people after my mom left. I still do,” he says softly.
Now we’re getting somewhere. “That must have been really difficult for you and your brothers and your dad.” I want to reach out and touch his hand, but I don’t know how receptive he’ll be to contact meant to comfort. I don’t think it’s something he’s used to, and I don’t want to give him a reason to shut this conversation down yet.
