Page 37 of Tempest

“There is nothing wrong with what I’m wearing,” she says with all the confidence she should have. She is the expert, after all, she knows what she’s doing.

“Nothing at all,” I confirm. “You’re the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen. And now I have to take you to a party filled with dirty-minded hockey players.”

“You’re dramatic,” she says with a sigh. “Has anyone ever told you that?”

“No. Never.” I laugh. “I’m the most down to earth man I know.”

“Doubtful,” she says. “Is there anything I should know about these people?”

“These people?” I ask as I follow her around while she places the bottle of wine in some fancy bag and grabs her purse. “I’m not taking you to an island of pariahs.”

“Dramatic,” she accuses again. “I meant, are there subjects that shouldn’t be spoken about or quirks I should know about. I hear goalies are unique. Is it okay to look him in the eye?”

“Now who’s being dramatic? Of course, you can look Hugo in the eye. But only the left.” I wink at her, and she can’t help the smile that grows. “Barring walking in there and declaring you’re a Vancouver Canucks fan, any subject that comes up should be safe.”

“Considering I don’t know what that is, it shouldn’t be a problem.”

“You wound me, Odette,” I say, this time purposely being theatrical and pressing a hand to my chest. “You know so many famous people, how have you never rubbed noses with pro athletes?”

“I’ve met a few. Worked with a baseball player’s wife once. That just isn’t the world I’ve been in, though. Today will be good at widening my circle,” she answers, as I load her into my car, trying not to let my hand linger on the smooth skin at the small of her back.

“Is that why you said yes?” I ask when I’m in the driver’s seat and start the engine.

“Partly. I do need to meet more people here. I’m afraid my social life is meeting an early demise.”

“Quite a bit different than life in the Big Apple?” I ask, ignoring how it makes me feel that she isn’t here entirely for me.

“I rarely spent time at home there. Here, it feels like I’m rarely away from it.”

“You haven’t been going out?”

“Some. I meet Vanessa for brunch most weekends, and Preston has taken me out a couple of times.”

“Preston?” I ask. “The stuffy dude from your party?”

“He’s not stuffy.”

“He is the definition.” I wonder if he’s married, but I don’t ask. Not yet, not when we’re just starting out our time together. My curiosity is piqued by what I found online, but if I’m realistic about it, I already have an inkling of why she chooses the men she does.

“In looks, perhaps,” she says, implying there’s been some intimacy that hasn’t been at all stuffy. My knuckles whiten on the steering wheel, but I let the comment pass. It’s not my business. Yet.

“Do you get back home much?” I ask, changing the subject.

“I still go home for Christmas. Dad would be broken-hearted if I skipped that.”

“I can imagine.” Odette’s house was always a hit during the holiday season. Her dad spent days setting up decorations on the lawn and lighting the house to perfection. The scene grew a little every year; and by the time we graduated high school it was an entire Santa’s workshop in her front yard. “I don’t get to go back that time of year, so I haven’t seen how it’s evolved.”

“They moved a few years back; he has more yard to work with now.”

“Maybe I’ll get to see it next year,” I say. “After I retire.”

“Why are you retiring?” She sounds surprised, and maybe…disappointed. Or sad? I don’t know why she would be, though.

“I’m old, Ode. I can’t keep up.”

“We are not old,” she says. “I’ve never seen you play.”

She used to talk about watching me when I was in the NHL, during that short time we made future plans. When we had dreams that included each other. We talked about her first NHL experience being my first professional game. I can’t count the number of times I played in a game in New York and thought about trying to send her tickets. I never did. Of course, I never did. It would have been presumptuous and cruel after what I did to her. That never stopped me from wanting that part of our dream to come true, though.

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