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In a heartbeat, the past nine months faded into nothing, as if I’d had my hands on her, skimming down the curve of her waist and hooking her leg over my hip, only yesterday.
“See.” She beamed, pulling the sandwich back and plopping into her seat again.
Though I wasn’t ready to leave the memory behind, I blinked back to the moment.
“It’s amazing, right?”
“Truth,” I agreed, because the sandwich didn’t matter.
She dipped it into the chowder again.
I picked up my own sandwich and rested my elbows on the table. “How did this start?”
“This?” she asked, cocking her head to one side.
“The market. The sandwich and soup dunking. All of it.” I expected her to launch into a story about her mother. I’d heard many at this point, and they all included some kind of adventure. New places, new food, new experiences.
But instead of bouncing in her seat and diving into an animated story the way she always did when she talked about her mom, Avery cleared her throat, ducked her head, and swirled her black plastic spoon in her chowder.
The sudden shift in her mood made my heart lurch. What was with the hesitation?
“Dad and I come here every year.” Her words were barely a whisper.
Oh.
I’d made a conscious effort to avoid the topic of her father so I wouldn’t accidentally hurt her feelings. And it was probably good that I had, because in this moment, my first instinct was to scowl and tell her that I couldn’t imagine the man spending even one second in a place that was meant for fun. But I bit my tongue. I wouldn’t speak negatively about him in front of her. I’d decided that long ago. So instead, I separated the idea of the asshole I knew from the mansheloved.
“Does he like grilled cheese and chowder too?”
She snapped her head up and focused her wide eyes on me, searching my face.
I schooled my expression into one that would hopefully convey interest rather than judgment.
She shook her head. “No, but this time of year is when Dad has the most free time.” Her attention shifted back to her dinner, and she once again spun the black spoon in her cup of soup. “He always packed as much quality time into November and December as he could. He played for the Revs until I was fifteen and got hired on as an assistant pitching coach that next year. So February through October were controlled by baseball and necessities, like homework and chores. But,” she said with a shrug, “November and December?” She scanned the water, wearing a bright smile. “Those were my months. We saw all the sights in Boston and did everything we could. Bolts Hockey games, Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum, the symphony.” With her lip caught between her teeth, she focused on me again. “Dad loves the cannoli wars, so he and I wander the city finding the best ones.”
Man, the guy sounded like a good dad. Or maybe Avery just brought out the best in people.
“Christmas market has always been one of our things. He likes it and hockey the most, I think. He and I were here on Wednesday night.” She met my eyes again, waiting, like she was worried I’d have something negative to say.
I could respond a dozen ways, but only a few of those would be acceptable if I didn’t want to wreck what I’d been working so hard to build.
I held her gaze and tilted a little closer, my elbows on the table once more. “So Christmas Markets and hockey, huh?”
“Yeah. They couldn’t be more different, but we love them both.” That brilliant smile was back, making the twinkle lights dance in her eyes.
“My dad and I bonded over hockey too. He took me to Islanders games all the time.”
She let out a scoff, her smile turning into a wicked grin. “You can’t be an Islanders fan.”
“Nah. I’ve been a Bolts fan since the Langfield brothers took the ice.”
“Nice. Boston sports are the best of the best.” Avery took another bite. “We should go to a game.”
“That would be fun.” Since the Langfields owned both the Revs and the Bolts, getting tickets was as simple as putting in a call to Hannah or anyone else who worked in the Revs’ offices.
“Did you play hockey?”
I sighed. “No, I needed to play sports that required less contact. Football, hockey, lacrosse?” I shook my head. “I couldn’t handle them. Baseball allows me that bubble of space I need.”
