“Beck—”
“Is there a way to practice not being weird for three hours?” He’s truly spiraling now. “Should I take notes? Is note-taking weird? Is it weirder to be weird or to try too hard not to be weird?”
I reach out and put a hand on his knee, stopping the frantic bouncing. “Beck. Breathe.”
He inhales sharply, looking at me with those impossibly blue eyes.
“Powers isn’t going to fire you for helping out a beer league team,” I say calmly. “And if you want my advice? Just be yourself.”
Beck looks horrified. “That’s the worst advice I’ve ever heard. Have you met me?”
I can’t help it—I laugh. “Yeah, I’ve met you. And Powers must see something in you too, or he wouldn’t be inviting you for lunch.”
Beck groans, flopping back against the couch. “Would it be weird if you went with me? You could sit at another table and hold up signs when I’m being too Beck-like.”
“Very weird,” I confirm. “Look, you want my actual advice? Powers sees something in your game. You had back-to-back wins, right? He wants to talk about hockey, not test your social skills.”
Beck considers this. “But what if?—“
“No what-ifs,” I interrupt. “Just go, be respectful, talk hockey, and don’t overthink it.”
“Don’t overthink it,” Beck repeats skeptically, as if I’ve suggested he sprout wings and fly. “Right. Sure. Do I apologize for ruining the Plague’s night?”
That’s trickier. “You can apologize, if he seems really put out by it. But just be honest—tell him you wanted to help out, and you didn’t think it through. But now that you understand how much management objects, you won’t do it again.”
“Okay,” he says heavily.
Looking at him sitting there on my couch, all twisted up about a lunch meeting, I feel something unfamiliar stirring in my chest. It might be affection. And that terrifies me. “Where did you get the idea that people don’t like you?”
“Because they don’t,” he says simply. “It’s always been this way. I’m a weirdo. Terrible conversationalist. Even my music is weird.”
It is, but I don’t point that out. I let my bartender instincts kick in instead. “But what if that’s your superpower? A goalie has to have a unique perspective. He has to look at the world his own way so he can figure out what the opponent is up to.”
Beck lifts his head from his hands. “Huh. I like this idea, but I think you’re just bullshitting me.”
“No, I’m really not. And Clay Powers has been around for a while. He probably understands it better than I do. Maybe you’re worrying for nothing.”
“Maybe,” he says slowly.
The water shuts off in the bathroom, and I glance toward the stairs, where Charlie is probably heading to his room.
“I know I have to leave,” Beck says quietly. “I’m sorry I didn’t call first, but I didn’t think you’d answer.”
My face heats, because he’s probably right. “It’s not you,” I whisper. “My life is messy, Beck.”
He gives me a sideways glance. “I really enjoy making it even messier. Especially when you put your tongue…”
I hold up two hands. “Don’t finish that sentence.”
He winces. “Okay. Yeah. Sorry.”
I walk him to the door, keeping a careful distance between us. When we reach the entryway, I cross my arms over my chest and lean against the wall—a deliberate maneuver to keep myself from touching him. Because I want to. Even though I shouldn’t.
“Thanks for the wings,” I say, my voice sounding stiff even to my own ears. “And for entertaining Charlie. He really enjoyed it.”
Beck’s eyes track the movement of my arms, a knowing smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “You’re doing that thing.”
“What thing?”
