Page 66 of Cross Check

“Are you two close?” Amelia asks.

“I’d say we are. We don’t tell each other everything, but if she said she needed help hiding a body, I’d be there in a heartbeat.”

“Casual murder reference. I like it. What would you use to dig the hole?”

“I want to say a shovel, but that might be too obvious of an answer.” I take my own piece of bread and douse it in olive oil. “Have any better suggestions for me?”

“No. Can’t say I’ve contemplated any body-burying techniques. Maybe listen to a true crime podcast.”

“I’m not a podcast fan. I get bored.”

“Really? I love them. I put them on when I’m doing things around the house,” she says. “Helps pass the time while I fold laundry.”

Podcast fan.

“Why is laundry the worst chore?” I groan. “I’ll wash dishes all day, but laundry is the bane of my existence.”

“You don’t send your laundry out? You have the money to pay people to do things for you.” Amelia mirrors my pose, her elbow on the table, chin cradled in her hand. “Seems like having free time would make it worth it.”

“Yeah, I’m not doing that.” The tips of my ears burn. “Not yet, at least. With cap space, I’m making less than a million a year while some of my teammates’ contracts give them a fourteen mil average annual value. Sure, I can afford it, but I don’t want to get too comfortable. Sending out my laundry teeters toward that big spender tag, and that’s not me.”

“Sorry. Money is an awkward conversation.” Amelia winces. “I didn’t mean for you to have to tell me how much you make.”

“It’s online and out there for anyone to see. I didn’t head to the league for the monetary benefits. While nice, the other stuff is more important to me, like playing a sport I love with the guys who’ve become my brothers.” It’s my turn to wince, and I drop my head back. “Dammit. We’re talking about hockey again.”

“It’s my fault for bringing it up! I’m appreciating your humble response while also switching the topic to something else.” She drums her fingers on the table. “Tell me, Grant. What kind of IRAs do you suggest I put my money in?”

I burst out laughing, trying hard to regain composure when we place our orders. I fail miserably when Amelia starts to giggle and butchers the word asparagus so badly, I keel over and press my fingers into my side to stop a cramp from forming.

“Aspragee?” I wheeze. “Is that a new vegetable?”

“This is all your fault.” She fans her face, a tear running down her cheek that she wipes away with her thumb. “You’re making me forget how to speak.”

“Like I’m apologizing for that.” I lift my chin in the direction of a couple at the bar. “Hey. Looks like someone else is experiencing a bad date here.”

Amelia turns to glance over her shoulder, and her mouth pops open. “Oh my god,” she hisses. “That’s the same guy I had my bad date with.”

“You’re joking.” I stare, taking in the flip flops, khaki shorts, and T-shirt that says F(emale) B(ody) I(nspector). “Please tell me it was a bet. The guy is wearing sandals when there is snow on the ground.”

“In my defense, his online profile had nothing about his disdain for women on it. I’m not a mental health professional, but I’m willing to bet he has severe mommy issues.”

“And garbage fashion sense. I gagged reading that shirt.” I thank the server who brings our plates over and reach for the grated parmesan cheese in the center of the table. “You need to up your standards, Green.”

“I don’t have any standards. Pretty sure that date was one of the last I went on, and I have no plans to re-enter the cesspool that is dating.” She stabs her pasta and takes a bite. “I’m perfectly content alone.”

“After the dinner you had with that leech, I’d be happy being Ms. Independent too. But for the record, if and when you decide to date again, I hope you don’t settle for someone who wants to tear down your career. You need a guy who will wear your jersey to the arena and boast about how happy he is being Mr. Green.”

“I’ve never had a guy wear my jersey. My college boyfriend thought I should be wearing his name on my back, not the other way around. No one else has been in the picture long enough to have that conversation.” She pauses to take another bite, chewing while the wheels turn in her head. “I’d like to be recognized like that. To be shown off.”

My molars ache from how hard I’m grinding my teeth so I don’t say something that will get me in trouble. If I were allowed, I’d wear her jersey every day. I’d cycle through a dozen different ones, jumping at the chance to talk about her legacy.

Instead of telling her all of this, I keep my mouth shut. I offer her a smile, resigned to the fact that idea will only ever be a fantasy, not reality.

“You deserve it.” My voice nearly splinters in two. I wish I was the one who could give it to you. “But if all else fails, at least you’ll have key lime pie.”

“I will have key lime pie.” She does a shimmy in her seat, some happy dance that’s too damn cute. “Who needs anything else?”

We go back and forth while we eat, talking about broken bones (six for her, three for me) and the best flavor of Gatorade.