Page 19 of From Coast to Coast

I’ve begun…noticing my roommate a little more, lately. The way his back muscles move under his shirts, and the strip of skin that shows above his waistband when said shirts ride up a little bit. I like the contrast of his black hair and blue eyes, and my eyes always seem to be catching on the layer of stubble on his jaw.How would it feel to have that scratch against me?

When our food is delivered, I stop objectifying my roommate and duck my head to eat, my thoughts a confusing tangle of Amanda, Grayson, and dating apps. If Brody is half as attractive as Grayson is, I’ll be happy.

“Remy?” Grayson asks, and I glance up to see him watching me over the rim of his mug.

“Yeah, sorry, did you say something?”

“You okay?”

Sure, don’t mind me, just wondering what your facial hair might feel like if your face was between my legs.I clear my throat. “Great. Thanks again, for suggesting today. I needed this.”

He grimaces, looking down at his plate guiltily. “Yeah, sorry. Should have got you out of the house sooner. I’ve become a little bit of a hermit, I guess. Didn’t mean to suck you into the vortex with me.”

“Honestly, I don’t mind,” I admit around a mouthful of eggs. “I never had to leave home much between games back in Cali, either. Why would I, when I had the prime surf spot right there?”

“I can’t believe they let you surf.” Grayson chuckles, shaking his head. “I went to a ski resort one year—to snowshoe, mind you, not ski—and you’d have thought the fucking sky was falling.”

“Management crawled right up your ass, did they?” I grin.

“So, either L.A. wasn’t concerned or they didn’t know about your surfing,” he notes, and I smirk a little wider.

“Surfing isn’t dangerous,” I hedge, and he snorts so forcefully I’m surprised a piece of egg didn’t come out of his nose.

“Right. Try telling that to the people who get attacked by sharks.”

“That’s rare. You’re more likely to get hurt being rag-dolled.” I pause, seeing Grayson squint as he tries to figure out what the term might mean. “It’s when you wipe out and then get swung around underwater. You can get disoriented, lose track of which way is up or down, crack your head on the ocean floor, dislocate a shoulder—shit like that.”

“Mm,” he hums, “and here I am getting in trouble forsnowshoeingof all things.”

I laugh. “Well, they might not have known I was surfing. I’ve got a private beach and I never went looking for waves where somebody might take a picture of me.”

“Madness,” he mumbles, shaking his head.

“So, I take it our adventure today isn’t going to feature any insurance nightmares?”

“I’m already persona non grata on the team,” Grayson answers dryly, reaching a hand out for the check before I can. “I’m not about to endanger their newest superstar.”

“What do I owe you?” I ask, nodding toward the pile of cash he’s counting out to leave on the table. Either he’s leaving a massive tip, or this is the most expensive diner in the history of diners.

“It’s on me. Welcome to Calgary, Remy.”

He stands, waiting for me to follow him out of the booth, and holding the door open for me, as we exit the diner. Rubbing my hands together rapidly, I nudge his shoulder with mine.

“Thanks for that.” He nods, shrugging in an embarrassed sort of way and rubbing a hand over his stubble again. I try not to watch the path of his hand. “So, what’s our first stop?”

“First stop is, of course, the Calgary Tower.”

“Fuck yes,” I say sportingly, as I climb into the passenger seat of his car. “What’s that?”

Laughing, he waits until my seat belt is buckled before putting the car in drive and pulling out of the parking lot. “It’s the giant tower thing that you’ve surely seen on the skyline. It’s super touristy, but you’re new and it’s something you’ve got to do at least once…”

He trails off, glancing at me uncertainly.

“But we could scratch it off the list, if you don’t want to do?—"

“Are you kidding? I’m game for anything. Give me all the tourist shit you got.”

“Someday when we’ve got more time, we can go over to Banff for the day. It’s not too far away—maybe seventy miles? Eighty? Not a bad drive, anyway. We could hike.” Again, this is said with trepidation—a slight rise at the end of his sentences, as though he’s unsure whether it’s a question or not.

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