Page 10 of Near Miss

He huffs a laugh, taking his hat off and running his hands through his hair like I’m an exasperating piece of work. I am, but he keeps grinning at me anyway. “I actually want to get some food. I’m starving. And I’d be happy to take you, too.”

My nostrils flare. I just want to go home and go to sleep—but he’s looking at me, and he reminds me a bit of a lost puppy. The heart that’s constantly bleeding, according to my sister, twinges in my chest, and I roll my eyes. “Fine. Can we go somewhere dark so no one notices when I fall asleep at the table?”

Beckett’s grin splits across his face, and that stupid dimple pops. He points his thumb over his shoulder towards the truck. “Perfect. It’ll reduce my chances of getting a drink thrown at me.”

I narrow my eyes. No one can possibly care about one missed kick that much. “People don’t actually throw drinks at you?”

“Not yet, but last week someone did make contact with a Timbit.” He raises his palms and smiles at me before turning and opening the passenger door.

“Oh, that’s a shame. Not Canada’s favourite donut hole. What flavour?”

“Birthday cake.” He gives me a resigned nod I think he thinks is a joke, before jerking his chin towards the pristine leather seat.

One of my brows rises. I’m not sure it’s entirely wise to be hopping in a stranger’s truck, even if he is some sort of celebrity. But I tip my head to the side, and his eyes go from these shining emeralds to something that looks sort of muted and sad.

His brother and the other residents think I’m mean, but my sister says I actually feel too much.

“What a waste, that’s the best kind.” I offer him a rare, soft smile, moving past him to hop up into the truck.

“That’s what I said.” Beckett’s smile widens and he holds out his hand for me, and against my better judgement, I take it. I don’t know anything about football—but these seem more like the type of hands that should be catching footballs, not wasted fluttering at his sides while he lines up a kick.

Wide, calloused palms, with veins traipsing the back of them.

I always worry about my hands—they’re dry, covered in chapped skin, and my nails are filed down to the quick. In the winter, they’re red and practically raw from the bitter Toronto cold and the sheer amount of antiseptic they’re exposed to.

But Beckett says nothing, offering me another grin, but this one seems soft—like he’s thankful, quietly so, like I might be doing him a favour by spending time with him.

He closes the door on me, and I catch a glimpse of my slicked-back hair in the passenger’s side mirror. I’m not sure how much of a favour it could possibly be when one of us may or may not be covered in medical waste.

The barisdark—some hole in the wall pub on a side street close to the east end I’d never seen before. I wouldn’t be able to fall asleep if I tried.

Not only is someone obnoxiously tuning a guitar on a poorly lit stage five feet to my left, but Beckett Davis talks. A lot.

It’s not a bad thing, necessarily.

It’s just a lot more conversation than I’m used to.

My father isn’t a talkative person, at least not with me. My sister knows me enough to know that sometimes I prefer to sit in silence. My two best friends, Willa and Kate, don’t live in town, and most of our conversations consist of text messages or voice notes that I can send when I do feel like replicating a conversation.

But Beckett really likes to chat. So much so that he didn’t leave a ton of room for me to say a lot on the way over here.

He didn’t seem to mind—happy to recount his afternoon sitting with Jer, watching old highlights and SportsCentre coverage, huddled over a small iPhone screen, telling me how surprised he was to have enjoyed his afternoon in an otherwise sterile, unforgiving place.

He tossed the occasional question my way, asking how far I lived from the hospital, how long a typical shift was, and whether I ever saw anything weird because sometimes I took the subway home in the middle of the night instead of driving.

The answer was yes, but he barely left me enough time to answer before he was asking me if I ever did reformer Pilates.

On anyone else, it might have seemed rude. But his fingers gripped the steering wheel, and he couldn’t stop tapping his thumb against the leather. It seemed sort of like he was excited to have someone to talk to. It would have been cute, if it didn’t seem so sad.

He hasn’t said much since we got here, flipping his hat forward so the beak cast a shadow, eyes darting around like he was worried someone might pop out from behind a wall and tell him they hate him before proceeding to throw a drink in his face.

But he visibly relaxed when he slid into the cracked vinyl booth in the corner. And it looked like the weight of the world melted off his shoulders when the server came along with nothing but a kind smile on her face to take our drink orders.

He looks positively alight when she brings them back, practically ignoring us when she drops off the perspiring glasses of beer and peeling plastic menus.

“So how was your day?” Beckett asks, taking a sip of beer. Drops of condensation fall from the glass and splash across the worn wood table.

“Fine,” I answer, scanning over the menu before I look back up at him. “I have bile in my hair.”

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