Page 41 of Rule 5: Never Crush on the Captain
But perhaps she often is.
I’ve distanced myself from Evan. I only know what he announces to a room full of hockey players, and even then, we’re often in hearing shot of the press or the random people who can act like the most vigilant paparazzi even though they don’t get paid.
Perhaps Valentina often drops by. Perhaps they’re getting back together. No. Not after last night, I remind myself. But Evan hasn’t made any promises to me, and I wouldn’t have let him. Many couples pull Elizabeth Taylors and remarry, and I know nothing about if they’ve been hanging out with greater frequency, sending each other the lingering looks that will lead to lingering kisses to a reunited family.
“Would you like some breakfast, Valentina?” I ask finally.
“I can find my own food,” she says, her voice sharp.
“Of course.”
I slump into the seat, clutching my coffee cup. Coffee has never tasted so bitter. I wonder how soon I can leave.
EVAN
Vinnie’s demeanor is stiff, and his face has that blank look I remember from our locker room encounters. I’m pretty sure his mind is not being quiet. I wish I’d known all along. I know now, and I’m not going to let him torture himself.
Not about me. Not when I want everything that I’m pretty sure he wants too.
Talking about things sucks, but we gotta do it. And postponing it is just silly.
“Let’s go outside,” I tell Vinnie.
“Now?” He blinks at me.
I snort. I don’t think he really wants to hang out with Valentina.
“Now.”
His brows furrow, but he doesn’t protest. He heads to the porch.
“Sit down.” I gesture at the porch swing.
He sits.
It’s amazing that yesterday he was talking, that this morning he was smiling.
I sit beside him. “Dude, you’ve got to smile.”
He turns to me.
“We’re great,” I remind him. “Everything’s great.”
Vinnie’s look reeks of skepticism.
So that’s probably my fault.
I’m not a talker. The most I have to say is when I get interviewed after games by the press. And since their questions have to do about playing, and since I’m pretty good at playing, the interviews tend to go well. Mostly, if I’m honest, they want pictures of me. The networks’ sports journalists prefer to go into the full details. A quote that “we’ve got this” is usually what they’re after, so that they can write an article about my determination.
I nudge him. “I mean it.”
His eyes widen, then soften, then he’s smiling. I smile back, because how could I not? Vinnie’s face fucking rocks.
“I liked last night,” I say.
He hesitates, and my shoulders slide down.
Oh.
