Page 4 of The Final Faceoff
I shoot him a glare before grabbing my drink—ginger ale, a splash of cranberry, and lime. He got it right, of course. It’s the same thing I’ve been drinking since I was a kid. The same thing my mom used to make so our kitchen—no matter what country we were stationed in—felt a little more familiar.
Leif nudges the glass toward me. “You should really consider switching careers, you know.”
I blink at him. “Excuse me?”
“You know, one with a little less travel. Maybe something boring and predictable, like . . .” He pretends to think. “Tax consultant.”
I roll my eyes. “Oh, yeah, that’s exactly what my soul craves. Deductibles and spreadsheets. Numbers, my favorite thing.”
He grins. “You still can’t get past two times four, huh?”
I groan. “You’re ridiculous.”
“You like me that way.”
I sip my drink, narrowing my eyes. “Debatable.”
Leif smirks like he’s heard this before. He has.
For a moment, we sit in the comfortable lull of knowing someone so well that silence doesn’t feel like a gap in the conversation. The restaurant hums around us—low lighting, the clink of glasses, the sizzle from the grill. I let myself sink into it.
Then, of course, he ruins it.
“So,” he says, tapping his fingers against his glass. “Are you ever gonna tell me why you’re actually here?”
I lift a brow. “Grandma’s birthday,” I remind him. “You’re coming to the party, right?”
“Yeah, but you also said you don’t know where you’re going next.” He doesn’t say it like a question—more like a challenge. Like he already knows I’m keeping something back.
I hate that he always wants answers before I’ve figured them out myself. He needs to fix things. I need space to let them settle.
“Like I said, we haven’t finished our piece and found something else to do,” I say lightly, keeping it casual. What comes after Greece is hard to say, though. “We have plenty of stuff. Later I’ll just rest for a couple of months because I can’t afford to keep buying water bottles.”
He scoffs. “You could rest. But you’re also Hailey. There’s a big chance that you’ll find another way to escape being in one place.”
Ugh. I hate how well he knows me. Since I’d rather deflect, I ask, “So how are you?”
Leif shrugs, like getting knocked out of the playoffs—again—doesn’t bother him at all. “I’m fine.”
I tilt my head, watching him. “Are you, though?”
His fingers tap against his glass again. A small pause. That’s how I know he’s thinking, deciding how much to say.
Then, finally, a short shrug. “Kaden’s still in the playoffs. That’s something. The Crawfords will go and cheer.”
I scoff. “Oh, please. Are we really gonna pretend you’re that chill about it? Your big brother making it to the second round of the playoffs while you’re out? That’s not something you enjoy.”
He shrugs again.
So, obviously, I push. “What about Boston? You could play there. Then you and Kaden would be on the same team. It’d save me and your family a lot of trips.”
Leif visibly cringes. “Why would you curse me like that?”
I press a hand to my chest, feigning offense. “Excuse you, Boston is a perfectly acceptable city, and they have a great team—” I pause, letting that settle in before adding with a smirk, “I mean, they’re still in the playoffs and might win the Cup.”
Leif’s jaw tightens, his grip flexing around his drink like he’s physically restraining himself from launching into a rant. His eye twitches. Okay, I’ve officially gotten under his skin. But it is true, though, he can be with his brother.
“Boston is good for college students and Red Sox fans,” he counters, exhaling sharply. “Not for me. I’d have to play for my dad’s old team. With my brother. That’s a lot of expectations I don’t need.”
