He cracks open a peanut shell. “My brother’s getting married.”
“Congratulations,” I say. “Where does the drama come in?”
“He wants me to come home for the wedding at Christmas.”
“And you’d rather not go?”
“I love my family,” he says, though his face didn’t get the memo. “It’s just hard. Anytime I go home, I’m reminded how I failed.”
“Failed at what?”
His gaze could wither an oak. “Baseball.”
“Ah, because I haven’t promoted you from interim head coach yet?” I ask, being deliberately obtuse. “Well, keep trying.”
He shakes his head, not quite annoyed, but not quite amused, either. “Something like that.”
I wait for him to say more, but after a pause, it’s clear he’s done. We both watch players warm up on the ice, and every so often, someone walks past us and they wave at me or say hi. But otherwise, Fletch and I just sit there. Almost like a companionable silence.
It’s as near to friendship as anything else I have in this town.
Outside of Sean, that is.
I open my mouth, tempted to tell Fletch about the ordinance. To have someone else get annoyed by the way the town has done me dirty, as they say. Because Fletch is a good guy. Stubborn and taciturn, but he’s the type you want in your corner. And it hits me: this connection, like every other one I’ve tried to build in this town, will die before it ever had a chance to grow.
And those dying connections include Sean.
The realization makes me feel like I’m breathing through wet wool.
A few more guys skate in from the tunnel, and I spot Sean immediately, partially because he’s the biggest guy on the ice. He doesn’t have his helmet visor down, so I catch his eyes scanning the crowd.
And I feel it when those eyes land on me.
Sean pushes off the ice with his stick and glides toward the plexiglass, slow and smooth, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. I grin and step over the row of seats in front of me. We meet at the edge of the tunnel, separated only by a low railing. He leans in close enough that I can hear him over the scrape of blades and the chatter on the bench.
“You came,” he says, his brown eyes dancing. “And you’re wearing a team sweatshirt.”
“Of course I came. And what kind of fan do you take me for?” I gesture to myself. “Look at me. Everything about me screamsall hockey, all the time.”
He laughs, leaning on his stick, cocking his head as he does, in fact, look me over. “I like you like this,” he says. “You look good.”
I bite my lip, even as my cheeks rise in a smile I shouldn’t feel, considering I’ll have to sell the team in a week. Butsomething about Sean makes even the worst case scenario feel manageable.
His mouth curves. It makes my stomach flutter.
Another player comes by and smacks Sean’s pads, and he winks at me before putting on his helmet.
The guys finish warming up, and soon everyone’s taking their positions. Except, I thought Sean played goalie.
I sit back down next to Fletch. “Do goalies always start the game in the middle of the ice?”
“No, they’re messing around. It’s like a … pickup game.”
“Ah.” I nod. “I have no idea what that is.”
Fletch scratches the back of his neck. “How do you own a sports team again?”
I jab him with an elbow.
