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“I don’t know. Like on a date.”
She blinks. “You’re asking me on a date?”
I shrug.
“Do you not remember that whole speech you gave—”
“Gonna interrupt right there, Gisele, because we both know I’ve never given a speech in my life.”
That gets me a grin. “Fair point. I’m talking about that day in the therapy room when you said you don’t ‘do’ feelings.” She air-quotes me.
“This isn’t about feelings,” I lie.
“Okay, then what would be the purpose of the date?”
“I don’t know. It might be nice to spend some time together when we’re not naked.”
Although now that I say it out loud, being naked is goddamn fun. Why do I want her with clothes on?
Gigi goes quiet for a moment before letting out a soft laugh. “I’m pretty sure you wouldn’t want to date me. Not for real.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I’m too girly for you.”
“You play hockey.”
“And I love butterflies. And flowers. And…um, opera.”
“Opera,” I repeat, and I can see what she’s trying to do. Lighten the mood again. Give me the opportunity to back out this preposterous door I tried to open. Preserve some of my dignity.
“Yep, opera,” she confirms, lips twitching with humor. “See? I can tell from your expression that it’s not your thing. Totally understandable, though. I forgive you.”
“You don’t actually like opera,” I say, because now I’m starting to wonder.
“I love it. In fact, it’s the only date I will ever consider going on.”
Now I know she’s lying, but before I can dig deeper into this, she gives me a gentle smile.
“Come on, Ryder, we don’t want to date each other. It’ll only complicate things.”
She says this as if the complication ship hadn’t sailed a long time ago.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
GIGI
Hockey players like it rough
ON A WEEKEND IN MID-NOVEMBER, THE MEN AND WOMEN’S TEAM schedules line up where we’re both playing the University of Maine. There are only a few dozen Division I schools in women’s hockey, which means we’re constantly playing the same teams throughout the season, often on back-to-back nights. So it’s always refreshing to face a new opponent like Maine. The men play Saturday, while the women play both nights. Either way, it’s a long enough drive from Briar that it means…
“Road trip, baby,” Camila says happily as she flops onto the twin bed next to mine. Our team manager is the one who comes up with the room assignments, and this season I’ve been paired with Cami. I don’t mind it, except that sometimes she talks in her sleep and doesn’t believe me when I tell her.
It’s game day, so I just finished a low-protein, heavy-carb meal, and now I’m nursing a sports drink until we need to go down to the bus. The hotel is about twenty minutes from the rink. It’s an early game, starting at four thirty, so we’ll have the rest of the night to ourselves, which Camila is all about.
“Should we hit up a club?” she suggests, rolling onto her stomach and scissoring her legs as she scrolls through her phone. “Does Portland have any good clubs? I’ve never actually bothered to check.”
“I say we go to the club after tomorrow night’s game. We should do dinner or something low-key tonight.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
She answers a phone call, so I head downstairs without her. Coach Adley and his staff are probably already in the lobby waiting to herd everyone onto the bus. When I step out of the elevator and start walking, a stocky man with glasses and a beard intercepts my path.
“Gigi Graham.”
I look over. “Hi.” He looks vaguely familiar.
“Al Dustin.” He extends his hand. “Assistant coach for Team USA.”
My heart speeds up. Oh my God.
I try to hide my eagerness. “Right. Yes, sorry. Good to see you again. I think you were at our exhibition game back in September. With Coach Fairlee.”
“Yes, we were.”
“Are you just visiting Portland, or here to watch our games this weekend?”
“Here for the games. But don’t worry, Brad’s not with me.” He winks. “So you can relax, let your guard down.”
I laugh sheepishly. “Yeah, he makes me nervous. Is it that obvious?”
“Nothing to be nervous about, kid. I caught some tape of your last game,” Dustin tells me, nodding in approval. “Excellent puck protection behind the net.”
I feel myself blushing with pleasure. Yes. Someone’s noticing. I make a mental note to thank Ryder.
“And while I’m not the one with the final say on our roster…” He smiles again. “I don’t think you have anything to worry about. Just throwing that out there.”
I force myself not to break out in a happy dance, but it’s difficult. Because if he’s implying what I think he’s implying, then I’m going to be receiving a call from Brad Fairlee one of these days.
“Anyway, looking forward to seeing you play live this weekend. Good luck out there.”
“Thanks.”
I’m still riding the high of that conversation during the game, which ends up being far less competitive than expected. Meaning, we kick their butts. I don’t know if it’s the cloud of exhilaration I’m on, or if Whitney and I are just in perfect sync, but we’re making the kind of plays you see on a professional level. By third period, Coach Adley benches the first and second lines. He gives the third and fourth lines the extra ice time, because there’s no way Maine is going to make up a five-goal deficit in the time remaining.
