Page 60 of Cross Check

“I don’t know. I’m still amped up from being around my friends.” He drops his hotel key on a table and disappears out of the frame. When he reappears, he’s pulling his shirt over his head and running his fingers through his rumpled hair. “Do you have a lot of friends?”

“A few.” I yawn. I prop myself up with an elbow and keep my eyes on his face. Gawking over his body when he doesn’t know he’s stripping isn’t fair, but fuck if I didn’t recognize that he’s a beautiful specimen. “I keep my circle small. I’m protective, I guess.”

“Of?”

“Of who I am as a person and not wanting people to judge me. I can be intense. I’m competitive. I want to be successful. It gets mistaken as bitchiness.” I brush my hair out of my eyes. “I keep walls up so people don’t get too close to me.”

“I’d never say you were those things.” He pauses. “Hardworking. Beautiful. Smart. That’s what you are. Definitely not bitchy. Fuck the people who think that.”

My heart flutters in my chest.

Beautiful.

When was the last time someone called me something so kind?

It’s been years, at least.

I like how it sounds.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

The moment breaks when he meanders through his room. I should be hanging up; it’s ridiculously early. I need to be at the arena in four hours. But I find myself rooted in place. Like I want to make sure he sets his alarm and makes it to bed without passing out and hitting his head on an end table.

“Look at that bed. I can’t wait to sleep,” he says.

“What time do you have to be up?”

“Bus for the airport leaves at two. Hang on. I’m taking off my pants, and I’m going to leave my phone here so I don’t flash you. That wouldn’t be cool.”

Grant leans his phone against a lamp and walks away. He might not be in the picture and I might be far away, but it feels like I’m there too. The glide of his zipper is magnified. Denim hits the floor, and I hear rustling through a suitcase. Grant’s shadow is cast across the carpet, shoulders leaning forward before standing up straight. Footsteps tell me he’s moving farther into the room. The sound of running water fills the silence, and the low hum of him singing echoes from the bathroom.

I blink, and he’s there again, perfectly focused in the center of my screen. He tilts his phone, and I see a basic white T-shirt that stretches across his chest. There are low-slung athletic shorts and glasses that slip down his nose.

“I’m back,” he says. “I remembered to take out my contacts, and that deserves a gold star.”

“Is your vision bad?” I ask.

“It’s not great. And when I’m drunk? Forget it. There’s already two of everything. I don’t need to confuse myself more.”

“My older sister refused to wear her glasses to school for three weeks when she was in the eighth grade because she wanted my parents to get her contacts. She literally can’t see without any sort of aid, but her holdout worked. She had an appointment the next day.”

“Tell me about her.” Grant climbs on his bed and rests his head on the stack of pillows. “Is it just you two?”

“No. There are three of us. All girls. My older sister has two kids and teaches seventh grade science.”

“Some of the kids who come to the team’s summer camps are in middle school, and they tease me more than anyone did when I was in school. Good for her.”

“Not for the faint of heart, that’s for sure.”

“What does your other sister do?”

“She’s a scientist who works in cancer research.”

“Jesus.” He lets out a soft chuckle. “Your family is talented.”

“Imagine my mother’s disappointment when I said I was going to study Communications at Wisconsin and play college hockey.” I laugh. “I’m the underachiever.”

“Nah. Your creative outlet is just different from theirs. That’s not underachieving. That’s knowing your strengths. Why go for a job in a field where you know you’d be miserable?” Grant pulls back his sheets. He yawns, covering his mouth with his hand. “How many years between you and your sisters?”