Page 21 of Crossing the Top Line

As a human being, he’s objectively handsome. There’s no way around that simple fact, not when his golden eyes spark like a bonfire as he stares down Mark and his stupid posturing. His dark hair was tucked under his backward snap-back hat, and I sigh. God, if he wasn’t a hockey player, the things I’d do to him…

A notification pings on my desktop, a new direct message to the team’s account. I pull it up, ready to delete it, but the name at the top gives me pause.

@Ace_trauckas21: If you’re free, I’d like to cash in my rain check, please.

I blink several times in confusion, but then it dawns on me. And sure enough, the profile picture is an action shot of Oliver in his Shreveport Krewe uniform.

@NOLAhockey: this is a professional account. You can’t just slide into the DMs like this is some puck bunny on Instagram.

@Ace_trauckas21: but I don’t have your phone number. How else was I supposed to get a hold of you? Lol

Even if he can’t see me, I nod a little with a smile, conceding the point. But before I can respond, another message comes through with what I can only assume is his phone number. I pick up my phone and enter it into a new message thread.

Me: Now you have my number. Please stay out of the team’s messages in the future unless it’s something work related.

I turn and delete the messages from the team account. The last thing I need to have happen is my boss or any of the upper management knowing one of the players is abusing their knowledge of who is running these accounts for unprofessional purposes. My screen lights up with two quick messages, and I swipe my unlock pattern to investigate.

Oliver: Thanks, and I’ll keep that in mind.

Oliver: You didn’t answer me about lunch, btw.

I sigh, thumbs hovering over the keyboard. I’d mostly been joking when I’d offered to buy Oliver lunch, but I don’t know if I could back out of this without looking like an ass. And a little voice in the back of my head points out that if this was literally any other player, I would be making restaurant suggestions without a second thought. I went out to plenty of friendly lunches when I was on the road with the team, and even a few group dinners at home. This isn’t any different, and there’s no reason to make this into a big deal.

Me: I guess I’m free. There’s a café around the corner that does pretty good po’ boys.

Oliver: Sounds great! Meet in the lobby in half an hour?

Taking a deep breath, I look at the clock. It isn’t quite time for my usual lunch break, but my stomach silences the last of my protests. I reply with my agreement, setting my phone back on my desk face down. I still can get a little work done before this totally professional and friendly lunch outing. Before it’s time to head downstairs, I manage to get a graphic request edited and sent back to the marketing team, and even on my way down, my head is bowed as I pour over my email inbox, assessing other requests and tasks that I need to get done before the game in a few days.

The elevator ride down to the ground floor is quiet, and I silently steel myself for whatever is about to happen. This is just a friendly lunch, no different than grabbing coffee and donuts with Rachel on game days. As the elevator comes to a stop and I make my way from the office portion of the Mystic complex out into the arena lobby, I know I’m a few minutes early. But to my surprise, Oliver is already standing there, hands in his pockets as he takes in the banners hung from the rafters that sway gently in the air conditioning draft. At the sound of my shoes on the floor, he turns around, his face lighting up in a smile. Even against my better judgement, the corners of my mouth lift in response.

He’s dressed in basketball shorts again, but thankfully isn’t wearing the unofficial footwear of hockey players—socks and slides—opting for sneakers instead. His Krewe shirt is a little faded from many washings, and it hugs his shoulders and chest, highlighting the breadth of him. The snapback is facing forward this time, leaving the ends of his thick dark hair to curl at the base of his neck.

“Ready? I’m starving,” he says emphatically as I approach.

I nod, turning and leading the way out onto the street. Despite it being October, it’s still hot and humid, the sun scorching down on us from above. I slide on a pair of sunglasses, adjusting my purse on my shoulder.

“Do you go to this place often?” Oliver asks conversationally, adjusting his stride to keep pace with me.

I nod. “We get a discount because of how much traffic we drive there before and after games. We’re pretty sure we’ve paid for the owner’s kids’ and grandkids’ college funds,” I say, laughing at my own joke.

Oliver chuckles along, sliding his hands into his pockets and looking around with a little smile on his face. He walks close enough to me that our arms occasionally bounce against each other, each time sending a little spark up my skin and raising goosebumps despite the heat. His scent is clean, tart bergamot and raspberries under a layer of soap, and it makes my stomach quiver strangely. When I look up into his face, Oli’s amber eyes roam over the buildings around us, taking in the brick and stucco with a smile pulling up the corners of his mouth.

“Eli and I don’t usually get to stay this long in the city. It’s been nice,” he comments offhandedly.

I hum neutrally, not sure how to respond to that. I have about as much control over the roster as the guys scalping tickets outside the doors on game days, but that doesn’t stop me from having opinions. I’ve seen more of Oliver on the ice this year than the last three camps combined, and it doesn’t take a lot of hockey knowledge to see that he’s talented. But it feels like Coach McQueen is sending guys down to Shreveport pretty much every few hours. I don’t want to give out any false hope, even to myself.

“We have a house on St. Charles for the off-season, but we usually have to put it up for vacation rentals when the regular season hits. It’s just too hard to do that commute,” Oliver goes on, seemingly not bothered by my lack of response.

“You and Eli?” I question, leading the way across the street and around a corner to take a shortcut through an alley.

“We’ve been pretty much attached at the hip since we met at dev camp a few years back,” Oliver explains, his stare hot on the side of my face as I keep my gaze fixed forward.

His examination feels heavy, like he’s looking for a specific reaction from me after learning that information. But it’s not like hockey players living together is a weird anomaly. The longer the silence stretches on, though, the more I’m starting to believe that there might be more to Oli and Eli’s relationship than meets the eye. But this is a friendly, professional lunch, not an interrogation. “How did you get a place on St. Charles?” I ask instead, chuckling.

Oliver palpably relaxes beside me, and I catch his grin as I glance at him out of the corner of my eye. “Luck. We were at an open house a few streets over and then our agent got the call about that house going up for sale. We literally ran over, fell in love, and put an offer in the same day. They never even got a chance to list it on any of the realty websites,” he says.

We both laugh at his joke, exiting the cool shade of the alley onto the hot street, but thankfully the little deli is only one shop over.

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