Page 43 of The Man in the Cottage

"How did you find this place?" I ask.

He tells me about driving around one night, needing to escape the cottage, seeing the sign and pulling in. Maria made him eat two plates of lasagna and told him he needed feeding.

"She wasn't wrong," I say.

"She's never wrong. Don't tell her I said that."

The bread arrives, warm and crusty, with olive oil for dipping. I tear off a piece and realize I'm starving—I barely ate all day, too nervous to keep anything down. Travis watches me eat with a small smile, like my appetite is something that pleases him.

"This is weird," I say.

"What is?"

"Being on a date with you. After everything." I turn my wine glass in my fingers, trying to find the right words. "Yesterday I thought you were just some guy who fixed things. Now I know you're a professional hockey player who's been hiding in my backyard for six months. It's a lot to adjust to."

"I know. I'm sorry."

"Stop apologizing." I take a sip of wine. "I'm not saying it's bad weird. Just weird. Like I'm getting to know you all over again."

"Maybe you are." He leans back in the booth. "The guy you knew before—the one who fixed your sink and helped with your book—that was me. But it wasn't all of me. I was holding back."

"Really?"

"Now I don't want to hold back anymore."

I believe him. I can see it in the way he's looking at me, the way his shoulders have dropped, the way he's not measuring his words anymore. He's letting me in. Finally.

"Tell me something," I say. "Something real. Something you haven't told anyone else."

He thinks about it for a long moment. Then he says, "I don't know if I want to go back."

"Back where?"

"To hockey." He runs a hand through his hair. "The team wants me back. My suspension is almost over. But I keep putting off the decision because I don't know if that's what I want anymore."

I didn't expect that. Hockey is his whole identity—or at least, I thought it was. The articles Brit found, the stats she read out loud, all of it painted a picture of someone whose entire life revolved around the sport.

"I thought hockey was everything to you," I say.

"It was. It is. I don't know." He shakes his head. "When I was playing, I never thought about anything else. The structure made sense. I knew who I was and what I was supposed to do. But now I've been away for six months, and I've had time to think. About what I want. About who I am when I'm not on the ice."

"And who are you?"

He looks at me, and there's something raw in his expression. "I don't know yet. But being here, with you—it's the first time in years I've felt like a person instead of a player. I don't know if I'm ready to give that up."

I think about what that means. Six months ago, he was playing professional hockey—traveling, training, living a life I can barely imagine. Now he's in a cottage in Longshore, Virginia, fixing gutters and helping me plot murders for my thriller. It's not exactly a lateral move.

"Do you miss it?" I ask. "The hockey, the team, all of it?"

He's quiet for a moment, considering. "Sometimes. I miss the ice. I miss the feeling of a good game, when everything clicks and you're just... in it. But I don't miss the rest of it. The pressure, the media, everyone having an opinion about who you are and what you should be doing."

"That sounds exhausting."

"It is." He shrugs. "I never noticed until I stopped. You get used to it, the way you get used to anything. But now that I've had space..." He trails off. "I don't know. Maybe I'm not the same person I was before."

"Maybe that's okay."

"Maybe." He doesn't sound convinced.