Page 89 of Playing Her Game

Daniil Reznik — FaceTime

I stare at his name for one stupid second before answering.

His face fills the screen, the camera tilted slightly upward. He’s outside the arena in Nashville, the bright entrance behind him and the night air reddening his cheeks. His hair is damp beneath a black baseball cap, and he’s still wearing his team jacket. Somewhere behind him, fans are spilling out onto the pavement, their voices carrying through the phone.

“Hi,” I say.

“Hi, fancy.”

My smile comes too easily. That’s the problem with him. I can spend an entire day reminding myself why I came home, what I owe my family, what I’ve promised, what my future is supposed to look like. Then he appears on my phone, and for a moment none of those things feel as important as the fact that he’s looking at me the way he does.

“You won,” I say.

“I noticed.”

“You scored the winning goal with seconds left. I think the entire arena noticed.”

His mouth curves. “You watched?”

“I did.”

“All of it?”

“Don’t sound so surprised.”

“I’m not.” He shifts the phone in his hand. “I was hoping you would.”

Something in my chest tightens. “You were?”

“Yeah.” His gaze stays on mine. “I wanted to know if you’d be watching.”

I look down at the blanket over my knees, suddenly aware of how much I’ve given away by answering so quickly, by watching the game at all, by sending that text the moment it ended.

“I wanted to see you play,” I admit.

His expression softens, but he doesn’t joke about it. “I’m glad you did.”

“You were incredible, Rez.”

“Thank you.”

For a few seconds, we simply look at each other. I hear the wind against his microphone and the traffic beyond the arena. He could have messaged me. He could have waited until he was back at the hotel, somewhere warm and private. Instead, he’s standing outside in the cold, calling me.

“You’re freezing,” I tell him.

“I’m fine.”

“Your nose is red.”

“My nose is Ukrainian. It can handle Nashville.”

I laugh, and his grin appears, but it fades into something quieter as he watches me.

“There she is,” he says.

“What?”

“That laugh.” He glances at the screen, then back at me. “I missed it.”