Page 7 of Tough Call

I grimaced sympathetically. “It would, yeah.”

“Ah, well.” He waved a hand. “I’ve done all right in Switzerland. I can’t complain too much.” His smile seemed ever so slightly forced. “Except in the winter, maybe.”

“Is it really worse than winter in Canada?”

“Oh, winters in Genève are nothing like the ones in Toronto. But you know me.” He grinned, a little spark of mischief in his eyes. “I hate the cold.”

I laughed, and so did he, and it felt good. Took me back to those days when he lived with us, when he’d bitch about having to walk from his classes to the rink in the rain or the snow.

“You’re complaining about getting wet and cold,” I’d tell him, usually while curled against him beneath the covers. “On your way to get wet and cold.”

“I don’t get cold when I’m skating.” Even now, I could feel the slide of his palm down my back as he added, “But it’s cold out there and it’s warm in here, and I don’t want to leave.”

“You’re such a baby.”

“Fuck you.” Then he’d pulled the covers off me, leaving me exposed to the cool air in the room, and I’d laughed as we’d wrestled for the covers. We’d both ended up warm after that. Very warm.

I missed those days.

I missed that kid who’d grown into this man.

Oh my God, I really missed you.

Heat rushed into my face, and I broke eye contact as I reached for my wine.

I was in the same place as the man I hadn’t realized I was missing. I wasn’t about to waste this regretting all the time that had slipped by.

I just hoped this wouldn’t be the last time we saw each other before another near-decade had passed.

CHAPTER 4

MADARS

I could barely eat, and it had nothing to do with the quality of the food. In fact, the food was incredible.

The problem? My stupid stomach was all in stupid knots because my stupid brain was spinning out over the man sitting across from me.

Connor was just… holy hell. He’d been so cute when we were kids, especially as he’d bulked up a little during that second year I lived with his family. The adult version of him, though? He had that lean build that all the refs had—came with the territory of skating a full sixty-minute game every night—and his features had sharpened over time.

He still had that smile that had made me forget English the first couple of times even though I’d been fluent since I was a child. Still boyish, still with those sparkling eyes—fuck, he was so damn gorgeous. It was a good thing he didn’t officiate any of my games. I wasn’t worried about him being biased—I was worried about my idiot ass crashing into the boards or a teammate because I was staring at a ref. I’d dated a teammate for a little while and that had been fine, but I doubted I could keep my skates under me if Connor was on the same sheet.

“Anyway,” he was saying, mercifully oblivious to my ridiculous brain, “my dad is still salty that Michael didn’t win, but I think Scott Paulsen earned it.”

I nodded as I caught up. “He broke the record, didn’t he? For points in a rookie season?”

“By five points, yeah.” Connor whistled and shook his head as he dragged a bread dumpling through the sauce. “Michael had an amazing rookie season, but there’s no beating that, you know?”

“No, definitely not. Didn’t he beat Paulsen for MVP later?”

“Yep. Two years in a row.” He rolled his eyes. “I think Dad just really, really wanted to have Michael’s name on the Rookie of the Year trophy with his, you know?”

“Sounds like a ton of pressure on Michael.”

Connor quirked his lips, then wobbled his hand in the air. “I mean, no more than Michael was putting on himself? He’s been competitive since he was a toddler.”

“Eh, true. I don’t think anyone gets to that level without being competitive at every goddamned thing.”

He arched an eyebrow. “Including you?”