Page 5 of Cross Check

“Why are you out by yourself the night before a game?”

“Curfew isn’t until ten, and I have a weird superstition.”

“A weird superstition.” I lean forward and lift an eyebrow. “You know you’re obligated to tell me, right?”

“Our team dinners on the road are pretty generic. They’re delicious, but my mom used to make spaghetti the night before a game. Marinara sauce. Tons of parmesan cheese.” He gestures around the restaurant. “It’s why I picked this place.”

“And garlic bread, I’m guessing?” I point to the half-eaten loaf in the center of the table. “I wouldn’t worry. It could be weirder.”

“You’re right. I could dip spaghetti in ranch dressing.” Grant lifts his plate and shows off the condiment in a glass jar next to a pile of noodles. “I swear this is my most unusual quirk.”

“At least you’re not a douchebag like my unfortunate date.” I smirk. “Don’t think sitting here with me is going to make me ask my team to take it easy on you tomorrow, by the way.”

“I wouldn’t dare. The Stars have had a rough couple of years, but Brody Saunders is coaching us now. Maverick Miller is on pace to have a great season. I really like Liam Sullivan in goal.” He snaps his mouth shut. “But we’re supposed to be talking about you. Three more minutes, and I would’ve given away all of our secrets.”

“You might be easily manipulated, Everett.” I put in an order for a slice of key lime pie to go when the server comes over. “How have you liked being in the big leagues?”

“It’s great, but it’s an adjustment. My path looks different from most of my teammates. I have less experience than a lot of the guys out there. I’m fighting for a roster spot every time I take the ice.”

“Players who recognize they’re in the hot seat perform better. You don’t take days off. You show up to practice and games ready to work as hard as you can to keep your dream alive. I’d pick that player every time.”

“I appreciate that. Thanks, Amelia. Coach Green. Um.” He pulls at his collar. “Do you have a preference?”

“Amelia is fine.” His bashfulness is endearing. I don’t know the last time I talked to someone who wasn’t sure of themselves, and I switch gears. “How do you like Denver in November?”

“I’ve never been a fan of snow, so I’m glad the weather is cooperating. Can’t complain too much.”

“Not a fan of snow? DC is going to be a rude awakening.”

“I know.” Grant laughs. “I’m more of a shorts guy, but I’m hoping the cooler climate grows on me.”

“That’s the nice thing about being an athlete.” The server brings me a paper bag, and I scribble out my signature on the receipt with a tip. “You can always request a trade to somewhere warm.”

“True, but I like what we have going on in DC. I want to stick around for a while.”

“In that case, I’m rooting for you, Everett.” I stand. “It was nice to meet you. Good luck tomorrow.”

“Thanks. I’m glad we got to talk.” Grant blinks up at me with long eyelashes and a nose that hasn’t been broken yet. “Hopefully it’s not the last time.”

I make it out to the sidewalk and take a deep breath, glad the night took a turn for the better. I glance over my shoulder, and I find Grant watching me through the large restaurant window.

He dips his chin, and I can tell his cheeks are red even from here. I shuffle past a couple sharing a cigarette and blame the swoop in my stomach on the dessert in my hand, not the dimpled hockey player whose attention I can feel long after I start the walk home.

THREE

GRANT

“Why are you staring at your phone like you’re mad at it?” Ethan Richardson, our team’s first line center, taps my shoulder. “Everything okay?”

“Huh? What? Yeah.” I flash him a grin. “Just debating if I want to send someone a private message. I don’t usually do this kind of thing, and I’m struggling.”

“Dude.” He takes a seat in front of his stall in the visitors’ locker room at the Denver Goldminers’ arena. “You’re not supposed to send a dick pic from a public account. Way too risky, and it leaves a paper trail. That’s why you get a second phone.”

“It’s a message to say hello, not pictures of my junk.” I glare at my best friend on the team. “Please don’t tell me you send unsuspecting women photos of your dick.”

“Unsuspecting? No. They know what’s going to happen ahead of time. We’re like gods to them, bro.” Ethan grabs his jersey and yanks it on over his pads. “Who are you messaging? A fan?”

“Are we talking about dick pics?” Maverick Miller, our captain and the league’s playboy, stands in front of me. “There are very specific steps to crafting the perfect image, and the locker room is not sexy at all.”