Page 38 of Take Two

“The quiet philosopher routine,” he says, the corners of his mouth pulling into a smirk.

“I don’t have a quiet philosopher routine.”

“You absolutely do. It surfaces whenever you say something unexpectedly profound and then act like it was nothing.”

Behind us, Cameron makes a sound that has no business calling itself anything other than a laugh. I am sure our entire exchange is deeply satisfying to witness.

Cyaire glances back over his shoulder. “You’re not helping.”

Cameron lifts both hands in immediate surrender. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You’re not supposed to be listening, Cam,” Cyaire says, lowering his voice in a way that is entirely ineffective.

“With respect,” Cameron replies evenly, “your idea of whispering is not what most people would call whispering.”

I shake my head and start walking again before either of them can pull me into whatever argument is trying to form around me. I have enough going on without becoming a referee.

Cyaire catches up a moment later, still smiling, still close.

“Are you seriously telling me nobody recognizes you out here?” he asks after a beat, something genuinely curious in it. “You won the Stanley Cup. You start for the Seattle Vipers. You are not exactly anonymous.”

I glance over and lift a brow. “Oh, so you know I start?”

The laugh that escapes him carries just a fraction too much surprise in it to be casual. “My dad is a fan.”

“Just your dad?” I ask, unable to help it.

The grin on his face widens incrementally. “Fine. My brother too.”

“That’s better,” I say, “but you can go ahead and admit you’ve been paying attention.”

He points at me without missing a step. “See?”

“What?”

“The ego. You hide it really well, but it absolutely exists, number seventeen.”

I press a hand against my chest in mock offence, even though something inside me is doing something embarrassing and undignified at the sound of my number falling from his mouth like that.

“The disrespect.”

“The accuracy,” he replies, pressing his lips together in a way that doesn’t succeed at hiding anything.

A laugh slips out of me before I can intervene.

“I get recognized,” I admit as we move with the crowd toward the lower part of the market. “The difference is that most people in Seattle leave me alone. They nod. Maybe they say something in passing. But they let me exist.”

Cyaire adjusts his sunglasses again, something almost wistful in the small gesture. “That sounds nice.”

“It is.” I step around a couple taking a photograph beneath one of the market signs and wait until Cyaire falls back into step beside me. “Some of the other guys have it worse. Tor, Ridley, Devan and Tobias, Derrick. Moving around can get complicated for them, especially when their partners are with them. The attention doubles.”

“That makes sense,” he says. “Some of them are recognizable well beyond just hockey.”

“Exactly. I got lucky.” I say it easily, because I mean it.

“Lucky?”

“I show up. I do my job. I win. I go home.” I count the points off on my fingers. “Nobody needs more from me than that, and I’m fine with it.”