Page 43 of Hooking Up with the Hockey Player

Troy seems to accept that, nodding as he looks around again.

“Want a tour?” I ask, even though we can see almost the entirety of my apartment from here.

He grins. “I’d love one.”

“This is the dining room,” I say, waving a hand like a gameshow assistant. “And that’s the kitchen.” I point at the space on the other side of the breakfast bar. It’s very compact—or “cozy” as the apartment listing called it—and I’m not sure the two of us would fit in there at the same time. “Would you like a drink?”

“Water would be great.”

He follows me into the tiny space, filling the entrance and blocking me in, watching me as I pull down two glasses and fill them from a pitcher in the refrigerator. When I hand him his glass, his fingers brush mine, sending a zing of electricity up my arm. I should be used to both his proximity and his touch by now, but something about having him here in my space, no one to interrupt us, adds a new layer of tension and anticipation. It’s thick in the air, nearly tangible.

His eyes hold mine as he sips his water, then he steps back, letting me pass. We go into the living room, and he surveys the area, taking in the basket tucked under the coffee table holding my current knitting projects. “You knit?” he asks, and my shoulders come up a little. This was one of Jared’s least favorite parts of me—how much I enjoy knitting.

I like to knit while watching TV or a movie, and he’d complain it meant we couldn’t cuddle. Of course, when I’d put down my knitting so we could cuddle, he’d complain of being uncomfortable. So then I’d have to sit there, my fingers itching to work on my project, neither cuddling nor knitting, because if I reached for my needles again, I knew he’d sigh and huff and carry on and completely ruin the evening.

“Yes,” I say quietly.

“That’s so cool,” Troy says, sounding almost enthusiastic. “My mom knits, and my grandma did too. Did you make that blanket?” He casts a glance at me as he steps toward the couch, running the tips of his fingers over the afghan folded over the back.

I have to clear my throat because of all the reactions I expected, this wasn’t on the list. “I did.” My answer is firmer this time. “My mom got me the kit to make it last year for Christmas. I actually finished it just a couple months ago, so I haven’t used it much.”

“It looks cozy,” he murmurs. “I like it. What are you working on now?”

I wave a hand, trying to dismiss the question, because the only people who ever actually care about that are other knitters. Like Amanda and Stephanie, the owners of the local yarn store. When I go in, they ask what I’m working on or what I plan to make with my new yarn. But random guys? Never. “Oh, just a sweater. And a pair of socks.”

That small smile he wears so often when we’re talking makes an appearance. “Can I see?”

Shrugging, I perch on the edge of the couch and pull my basket out. Troy sits next to me, leaning forward like this is the most interesting thing he’s seen in ages.

“Nothing fancy,” I feel the need to defend myself. “Just some plain vanilla socks. But it’s pretty yarn, so anything like lace or cables would be too busy.” I pull out the sock that’s currently on the needles, and he fingers the cuff. “These feel great.” Then he looks at me. “And the sweater?”

“Oh, I’m excited about that one. It’s all squishy cables. It’ll be perfect for winter, especially on the really cold days. It’s not much to look at so far.”

Once again he reaches out to touch the cream-colored yarn, nodding in satisfaction. “You and my mom would get along great, I bet. Hang on.” He pulls out his phone, then settles back on the couch, and for a split second I’m worried he’s going to call his mom.

Instead, he opens the photos app on his phone, scrolling for a while, then leaning in close to show me a picture of a smiling older couple, the woman’s gray hair cut in a chin-length bob and the man’s still showing streaks of dark brown mixed with the silver. They’re both wearing knitted hockey jerseys bearing the Seattle hockey team’s logo.

“My mom’s been knitting team jerseys for them to wear to my games since I was in college.” He grins down at me. “They wanted jerseys with my name on them, but in college that wasn’t available, so my mom decided to make them. As soon as I got drafted to a pro team out of college, she cast on almost immediately for another one. No generic jerseys are good enough when they need to support me,” he chuckles.

I take the phone from his hand, zooming in on their sweaters. “Holy crap. That’s amazing.”

His arms move up and down against my shoulder with his shrug. “That’s my mom, though. She’s like that about everything. If she can’t find what she wants, she makes it. And half the time, even if she can buy it, she’ll make it anyway, saying she can do a better job than whatever’s available in the store.”

Grinning, I hand him back his phone. “Judging by that”—I nod at the picture—“she’s not wrong.”

As he puts his phone away, I load my knitting back into its basket and put it away under the coffee table again. Standing, I hold out a hand to him, all my nerves completely washed away by that conversation. “Want to finish the tour?”

Taking my hand, a wide grin on his face, he stands. “Absolutely.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Troy

Being in Anna’s space reveals new and undiscovered parts of her, and I’m thoroughly enjoying the experience.

I can just imagine her sitting on the couch, ensconced in that cozy blanket, a steaming mug of tea—or maybe hot chocolate?—on the coffee table in front of her as she knits and watches some kind of cozy movie. I bet she’d go for Hallmark Christmas movies during the holidays. Her description of how magical the town is during ChristmasFest, her love of neat and tidy things with a side of cozy—how could she not?

I love the fact that she knits. It’s … very her. It just fits with everything else I know about her. Quiet, steady, organized, unassuming, beautiful. All words I associate with both her and knitting.

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