Page 22 of Crossing the Top Line

Stepping inside the shop, I take a deep breath, basking in the familiar scent of hot oil, bread, seafood, and Cajun spices. We walk up to the counter and place our orders with a bored-looking teenager before finding seats at a table of questionable stability by the window. I push my sunglasses up to rest along my hairline, effectively tucking away a few flyaway strands of hair. I smile as I look outside, taking in the afternoon on the other side of the dirty glass. There isn’t a lot of foot traffic today with the heat, but I recognize a few of the passing cars belonging to some of the other players. Probably heading to get their own lunches before the afternoon sessions. The on-ice group would be heading up to video coaching, and the guys who sat through that in the morning will be gearing up for drills.

“How’d you get a job with the Mystic?” Oliver asks, pulling my attention back to his face.

I turn back to him, considering his relaxed posture, with one ankle resting on the opposite knee, his hat off now and placed on the table. He’s staring at me, but not in a weird or creepy way. More like he’s giving me and our conversation his entire focus and attention. My stomach flutters a little at the realization even as I sit back and cross one of my legs over the other.

“I went to grad school at Tulane, and I was lucky enough to turn my internship into employment when I graduated,” I answer, adjusting my purse strap across my chest.

“What did you study?” he continues, eyes locked on my face.

“Communication, but my master’s is in Public Relations,” I reply, shoulders rolling back and chin lifting proudly.

Oliver makes an appreciative noise and opens his mouth to ask yet another question, but the teen from the counter comes over with our drinks. I take a small sip of my sweet tea, watching as Oliver drains half of his glass of water in one long pull. His neck and jaw are covered in coarse, dark hair, just long enough not to be stubble. When he sets down the glass, a rogue drop escapes from his lips and trails across his chin and down his throat, and my eyes follow it like it’s the winning horse at the Kentucky Derby. The way the muscles of his neck flex as he swallows, the stretch of his shirt as he lifts an arm to wipe away the errant moisture. I blink, the trance broken and my eyes snapping to his. He’s wearing a smirk that’s a little too knowing for my liking. I clear my throat and take another drink, shifting in my seat.

“Where are you from?” I ask before he gets the chance to continue his interrogation.

He sets his glass down and looks at me with a wry smile. “A town so small that most people drive right through it without ever noticing, but it’s about thirty minutes outside of Montreal,” he replies.

I laugh. “I grew up in a small town, too. Do you prefer the city?”

Oliver nods emphatically. “Oh, yeah,” he says with a laugh.

And now that I know to look for it, I can hear the hint of a Canadian accent to the words. It’s a lot like the Midwestern accent I pick up after going home for the holidays, but there’s a touch of French lift to some of the vowels. I wonder idly if he speaks the language. I’d learned enough from my dad’s teammates to carry a conversation; same with Swedish, even though I was convinced that I’d never find a use for that skill. Egg on my face.

We converse for a while about the trials and tribulations of growing up in small towns, laughing at each other’s jokes, and before I know it, our food is sitting in front of us. We’re quiet as we eat for a while, my shrimp po’ boy crispy and flakey, smothered in Louisiana Crystal hot sauce and all the fixings. Oliver got a roast beef po’ boy, and I swear he barely breathes as he devours the first half of the sandwich.

“So, what’s up with you and Spencer?” he asks between bites.

Nearly choking on my own swallow, my heart takes up all the room in my throat. I manage to get the bite down and take a long drink of my tea to stop the coughing, and also to avoid looking at Oliver. I can feel his golden stare on my face, the phantom touch of it making my cheeks hotter and hotter by the second. Once I’ve recovered, I look down at my sandwich, my appetite suddenly gone.

“Nothing,” I try to say, but the lie sticks in my throat, making me cough again.

“I’ve had my fair share of hard hits, but my brain isn’tthatscrambled, Tori,” Oliver returns, and I can practically hear him rolling his eyes.

I sigh, using my fingers to gather stray crumbs on the table and sweep them into a pile. But even as I finish and brush the crumbs to the floor, Oliver stays silent, waiting for my answer.

“It’s…complicated,” I start, shoulders slumping.

“Complicated?” he repeats, lowering his voice.

I look up at him at last, and my breath catches for an entirely different reason. His sandwich is abandoned off to one side of the table, and he’s leaning forward in his seat, both feet on the floor as he rests his forearms on the Formica tabletop. With his entire focus on me again, his amber eyes bore into my soul, but it’s different than before. This look is more…intimate, more understanding. There’s not an ounce of judgement in them, or any pressure to share more than I’m comfortable.

I sigh, leaning forward slightly as well. “Yeah. When I was a senior and he was a freshman, we had…we were involved very briefly. It ended abruptly and badly. This is the first time I’ve seen him in six years,” I say, choosing my words with the utmost care.

Nothing about that statement is untrue, per se. But even if talking with Oliver is easy, and it feels like I’ve known him my entire life, I really only just met him. And I don’t know if I can trust him with the whole truth yet. My instincts want to, but it’s easy to push those aside for the moment.

Oliver nods seriously and doesn’t push for more details. He chews on his bottom lip for a moment before nodding again, almost to himself.

“What about you and Eli?” I ask, dropping my voice even more.

And I’m right to do so, judging by his suddenly stricken expression. All the color leeches from his cheeks in a heartbeat, his eyes wide and mouth a tight line. He sits back, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Why?” he asks, the word a little hoarse.

I shrug. “You bought a house with him. You don’t do that with just anybody,” I comment, fidgeting with my straw wrapper.

Oliver doesn’t speak for a long time, the longest he’s been silent since we met in the lobby. I give him time, not pushing for more, even if my curiosity is pounding on the inside of my skull, demanding answers.

“It’s complicated,” he parrots, not looking at me as he picks at the crust of his bread.

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